rw^ 


Krat*r     f»-.a«-*.l!gE..y. 


T^^iT^r^^.?*- 


mi 


S-^^^^ 


K^: 


Mary  J.   L.    Mc  Donald 


mt 


^'  An  arm 
Rose  upfront  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful. 
Holding  the  sword y 

The  Passing  of  Arthur,  Page  391, 


THE 


POETICAL   WORKS 


o? 


ALFRED   TENNYSON; 


POET  LAUREATE. 


COMPLETE    EDITION, 


ILLUSTRATED. 


CHICAGO   AND  NEW^  YORK: 

BELFORD,  CLARKE   &   COMPANY, 

Publishers. 


IN  MEMORfAM 

r-  v  ■ 


TROWS 

fRINTINQ  AND  BOOKBINDINQ  COMPANY, 

NEW  YORK. 


CONTENTS 


♦  Page. 

Poems  (Published  1830): — 

tJTo  the  Queen 7 

— -Claribel 7 

Lilian 8 

Isabel 8 

Mi^Mariana 9 

To  10 

Madeline 10 

Song.— The  Owl 11 

Second  Song 11 

Recollections  of  the  Arabian  Nights..  11 

Ode  to  Memory 13 

Song 14 

Adeline 15 

A  Character 15 

The  Poet 16 

The  Poet's  Mind 17 

The  Sea-Fairies 17 

The  Deserted  House 18 

The  Dying  Swan 18 

A  Dirge  19 

Lore  and  Death 19 

The  Ballad  of  Oriana 20 

Circumstance 21 

The  Merman 21 

The  Mermaid 2 

Sonnet  to  J .  M.  K 22 

Poems  (Published  1832)  :— 

-—The  Lady  of  Shalott 23 

Mariana  in  the  South 25 

Eleanore 26 

The  Miller's  Daughter 28 

Fatima 30 

— '^Enone 31 

The  Sisters 36 

To 36 

The  Palace  of  Art 37 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere 4: 

The  May  Queen 42 

New- Year's  Eve 43 

Conclusion 45 

"*The  Lotos-Eaters 46 

A  Dream  of  Fair  Women 49 


Pagr. 

Margaret 53 

The  Blackbird 54 

The  Death  of  the  Old  Year 54 

ToJ.S 55 

"  You  ask  me  why,  tho'  ill  at  ease  "..  56 
"  Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights  "  57 
"  Love  thou  thy  land,  with  love  far- 
bought  " 57 

The  Goose 58 

English  Idyls  and  other  Poems  (Pub- 
lished 1842) : — 

The  Epic 59 

-•-Morte  d' Arthur 60 

The  Gardener's   Daughter  ;  or,   The 

Pictures 65 

Dora 69 

Audley  Court 72 

Walking  to  the  Mai! 73 

Edwin  Morris  ;  or,  The  Lake 75 

St.  Simeon  Stylites 78 

The  Talking  Oak 82 

Love  and  Duty 5 

The  Golden  Year 86 

— JWysses 88 

icksley  Hall 89 

Godiva 94 

The  Two  Voices 95 

The  Day-Dream loi 

Amphion 105 

St.  Agnes 106 

«-«Sir  Galahad 106 

Edward  Gray 107 

Will  Waterproof's  Lyrical  Monologue  108 
To  L ,  after  reading  a  Life  and  Let- 
ters    in 

To  E.  L.,  on  his  Travels  in  Greece. . .   in  * 

Lady  Clare 1 13 

The  Lord  of  Burleigh 113 

.*^ir  Launcelot  and  Queen    Guinevere.  114 

A  Farewell 1/4 

The  Beggar  Maid 1 15 

The  Vision  of  Sin n| 

*'  Come  not,  when  I  am  dead  " .  ii^ 

(3) 


rui^/i  <^>''^.'/ii 


Pagb. 

The  Eagle ii8 

"  Move  eastward,  happy   Earth,   and 

leave  " ii8 

•**•  Break,  break,  break  " 1 18 

^    The  Poet's  Song ii8 

The  Princess:  A  Medley 119 

■^N  Memoriam 179 

Maud,  and  other  Poems: — 

Maud  2ig 

The  Brook ;  an  Idyl 241 

The  Letters . . ,. 245 

-J©de  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wel- 
lington   246 

The  Daisy 249 

To  the  Rev.  F.  D.  Maurice 251 

Will 252 

1  he  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade 252 

Idyls  of  the  King. — 

Dedication 253 

Enid 254 

Vivien 2S7 

~-    — Elaaie  302 

Guinevere  328 

^Enoch  Arden 340 

Additional  Poems: — 

Aylmer's  Field 357 

Sea  Dreams 372 

The  Grandmother 378 

Northern  Farmer... 381 

Tilhonus 383 

The  Voyage 385 

In  the  Valley  of  Cauteretz 386 

The  Flower 386 

Requiescat 387 

The  Sailor-Boy 387 

The  Islet 387 

The  Ringlet 388 

A  Welcome  to  Alexandra v^S^^ 

Ode  sung  at  the  Opening  r^  the  Intcr^  - 

national  Exhibition 389 

A  Dedication ...  390 

The  Captain  ;  a  Legen'i  of  the  Navy..  390 

Three  Sonnets  to  a  C(  quette 391 

On  a  Mourner 392 

Song 392 

Song 392 

Experiments: — 

Boadicea 393 

InQuantity 395 

Specimen  of  a  Translation  of  the  Iliad 

in  Blank  Verse ....  396 

•"^ 
The  Holy  Gkail  and  other  Poems:— 

The  Coming  of  Arthur 397 

The  Holy  Grail 40S 

,     Pelleas  and  Ettarre •.-   •        422 

The  Passing  of  Arthur 433 


Pagb. 

Miscellaneous  :— 

Northern  Farmer.     New  Style 441 

The  Victim 443 

Wages. '  •  •  443 

The  Higher  Pantheism 444 

Lucretius 444 

The  Golden  Supper 449 

Additional  Poems  ■ — 

Timbuctoo 457 

Poems  published  in  the  Edition  of 
1830,  and  omitted  in  Later  Edi- 
tions — 

Elegiacs 461 

The  ■•  How  "  and  the  "  Why  " 46a 

Supposed  Confessions  of  a  second-rate 
sensitive  Mind  not  in  Unity  .with  it- 
self   462 

The  Burial  of  Love....   465 

To  465 

Song 465 

Song 465 

Song. 466 

Nothing  will  die 466 

All  Things  will  die - fi%6j 

Hero  to  Leander  467 

The  Mystic 468 

The  Grasshopper 469 

(      Love,  Pride,  and  Forgetfulness  469 

Chorus    in    an     unpublished    Drama, 

written  very  early . 469 

Lost  Hope 470 

The  Tears  of  Heaven 470 

Love  and  Sorrow 470 

To  a  Lady  Sleeping 471 

Sonnet 47- 

Sonnet 47* 

Sonnet 47^ 

Sonnet 472 

Love 472 

The  Kraken 473 

English  War-Song 473 

National  Song 474 

Dualisms 474 

Wc  are  Free 474 

The  Sea  Fairies 475 

Oi  peofTcc 475 

Poems    published  in   the  Edition  of 

1833,  AND  omitted  in    LaTEK  EDI- 
TIONS :— 

Sonnet 47^ 

To  476 

Bonaparte 477 

Sonnets 477 

The  Hesperides 478 

Rosalind 479 

Song 480 

Kate 480 

Sonnet  written  on  hearing  of  the  Out- 
break of  the  Polish  Insurrection 481 

Sonnet  on  the  Result  of  the  late  Rus- 
sian Invasion  of  Poland 4*^1 


CONTENTS. 


Page. 
Sonnet 481 

O  Darling  Room 482 

To  Christopher  North 482 

Fugitive  Poems; — 

No  More. 482 

Anacreontics 482 

A  Fragment 483 

Sonnet 483 

Sonnet 483 

The  Skipping-Rope 484 

The  New  Timon  and  the  Poets 484 

Stanzas  484 

Sonnet  to  Wilham  Charles  Macready.   485 

Britons,  guard  your  own 485 

The  Third  o£  February,  1852 486 

Hands  all  round 487 

The  War 488 

On  a  Spiteful  Letter 488 

1865-1866 488 

The  Window  ;  or,  the  Songs  of  the 
Wrens. 
On  the  Hal 489 


Page. 

At  the  Window 49a 

Gone  ! 4';'J 

Winter 4^0 

Spring 490 

The  Letter 49° 

No  Answer 4yi 

No  Answer 491 

The  Answer 491 

Ay! 49« 

When?  492 

Marriage  Morning 492 

Gareth  and  Lynette 492 

The  Last  Tournament 519 

Epilogue  to  Idyls  of  the  King 533 

A  Welcome  to  the  Duke  and  Duch- 
ess of  Edinburgh.   ...  535 

In  the  Garden  at  Swainston 536 

The  Voice  and  the  Peak 536 

Queen  Mary 537 

Harold 615 

The  Revenge 652 

The  Defence  of  Lucknow 

Dedicatory  Poem  to  Princess  Alice....  661 
The  Lover's  Tale .  664 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS. 


Child-Songs  : — 

The  City  Child... 684 

Minnie  and  Winnie 684 

To  Alfred  Tennyson,  My  Grandson  . .   685 

The  First  Quarkel 687 

RlZPAH 689 

The  Northern  Cobbler 692 

The  Sisters 696 

The  Village  Wife  ;  or,  the  Entail.  .   .  701 

In  THF,  Children's  Hospital 705 

Dedicatory  Poem  to  Princkss  Alice..   707 

Sir  John  Oldcastle,  Lord  Cobham 707 

CoLUMBU* 711 

The  Voyage  of  Maeldune 715 


I  De  Profundis 71Q 

The  Human  Cry 720 

[  Prefatory  Sonnet 720 

i  7'o  the  Rev.  W.  H.  Brookfield 720 

;  Montenegro 721 

;  To  Victor  Hugo 721 

j  Battle  OF  Brunanburh 722 

!  Achilles  over  the  Trench 724. 

Despair 725 

The  Charge  of  the  Heavy  Brigade 728 

j  To  the  Princess  Frederica 729 

I  Sir  John  Franklin 730 

i  To  Dante 730 

i  To  Virgil 73* 


POEMS. 


(published  1830.) 


TO  THE  QUEEN. 

Revered,  beloved — O  you  that  hold 

A  nobler  office  upon  earth 

Than  arms,  or  power  of  brain  or  birth 
Could  give  the  warrior  kings  of  old, 

Victoria, — since  your  Royal  grace 
To  one  of  less  desert  allows 
This  laurel  greener  from  the  brows 

Of  him  that  utter'd  nothing  base ; 

And  should  your  greatness,  and  the  care 
That  yokes  with  empire,  yield  you 

time 
To  make  demand  of  modern  rhyme 

If  aught  of  ancient  worth  be  there  ; 

Then — while  a  sweeter  music  wakes, 
And  thro'  wild  March  the  throstle 

calls,    . 
"Where  all  about  your  palace-walls 

The  sunlit  almond-blossom  shakes — 

Take,  Madam,  this  poor  book  of  song  ; 
For  tho'  the  faults  were  thick  as  dust 
In  vacant  chambers,  I  could  trust 

Your  kindness.     May  you  rule  us  long, 

And  leave  us  rulers  of  your  blood 
As  noble  till  the  latest  day ! 
May  children  of  our  children  say, 

**  She  wrought  her  people  lasting  good  ; 

**  Her  court  was  pure  ;  her  life  serene ; 

God  gave  her  peace ;  her  land  re- 
posed ;  [closed 

A  thousand  claims  to  reverence 
In  her  as  Mother,  Wife,  and  Queen ; 

*•  And  statesmen  at  her  council  met 
Who  knew  the  seasons,  when  to  take 
Occasion  by  the  hand,  and  make 

The  bounds  of  freedom  wider  vet 


"  By  shaping  some  august  decree. 
Which  kept   her   throne    unshaken 

still. 
Broad  based  upon  her  people's  wil]. 

And  compassed  by  the  inviolate  sea." 
March,  1851. 


CLARIBEL. 

A  MELODY. 

Where  Claribel  low-lieth    «^ 
The  breezes  pause  andHdie, 
Letting  the  rose-leaves  fall : 
But  the  solemn  oak-tree  sigheth 
Thick-leaved,  ambrosial, 
With  an  ancient  melody 
Of  an  inward  agony. 
Where  Claribel  low-lieth. 


At  eve  the  beetle  boometh 
Athwart  the  thicket  lone  : 

At  noon  the  wild  bee  hummeth 
About  the  moss'd  headstone : 

At  midnight  the  moon  cometh, 
And  looketh  down  alone. 


-V    i  ;  ■ 
Her  song  the  lintwhite  swelleth, 
The  clear-voiced  rna,vis  dwelleth, 

The  callow  throstle  lispeth, 
The  slumberous  wave  outwelleth 

The  babbling  runnel  crispeth,  ^ 
The  hollow  grot  replieth 
Where  Claribel  low-lieth. 


bwti'" 


LILIAN.— ISABEL. 


LILIAN. 


Airy,  fairy  Lilian, 

Flitting,  fairy  Lilian, 
When  I  ask  her  if  she  love  me, 
Claps  her  tiny  hands  above  me, 

Laughing  all  she  can  ; 
She'll  not  tell  me  if  she  love  me, 

Cruel  little  Lilian. 


When  my  passion  seeks 

Pleasance  in  love-sighs 
She,  looking  thro'  and  thro'  me 
Thoroughly  to  undo  me, 

Smiling,  never  speaks : 

So  innocent-arch,  so  cunning-simple, 

From  beneath  her  gather'd  wimple 

Glancing  with  black-beaded  eyes, 

Till  the  lightning  laughters  dimple 

The  baby-roses  in  her  cheeks  ; 
Then  away  she  flies. 


Prythee  weep.  May  Lilian ! 
Gayety  without  eclipse 

Wearieth  me.  May  Lilian  : 
Thro'  my  very  heart  it  thrilleth 

When  from  crimson-threaded  lips 
Silver-treble  laughter  trilleth ; 

Prythee  weep,  May  Lilian. 

4- 

Praying  all  I  can. 
If  prayers  will  not  hush  thee, 

Airy  Lilian, 
Like  a  rose-leaf  I  will  crush  thee, 

Fairy  Lilian. 


ISABEL. 
I. 

Eyes  not  dovv  n-dropped  nor  over-bright, 

but  fed 

With  the  dear-pointed  flame  of  chastity, 

Clear.without  heat,undying,tendcd  by 

\  Pure  vestal  thoughts  in  the  trans- 

,  \  lucent  fane  [pread, 

I \0f  her  still  spirit;  locks  not  wide  dis- 


Madonna-wise  on  either  side  her 

head  ;  [reign 

SwQ^t  lips  whereon  perpetually  did 

The  summer  calm  of  golden  charity, 

Were  fixed  shadows  of  thy  fixed  mood, 

Revered   Isabel,   the    crown    and 

head. 

The  stately  flower  of  female  fortitude, 

Of  perfect  wifehood,  and  pure  low- 

lihead. 

2. 

The  intuitive  decision  of  a  bright 

And  thorough-edged  intellect  to  part 

Error  from  crime  ;  a  prudence  to 

withhold ;  [in  gold 

The  laws  of  marriage  character'd 

Upon  the  blanched  tablets  of  her 

heart ;  [Hght 

A   love   still   burning   upward,  giving 

To  read  those  laws  ;  an  accent  very  low 

In  blandishment,  but  a  most  silver  flow 

Of  subtle-paced  counsel  in  distress, 

Right  to  the  heart  and  brain,  tho'  un- 

descried,  [tleness 

Winning  its  way  with  extreme  gcn- 

Thro'  all  the  outworks  of  suspicious 

pride ; 
A  courage  to  endure  and  to  obey ; 
A  hate  of  gossip  parlance  and  of  sway, 
Crown'd  Isabel,  thro'  all  her  placid  life, 
The  queen  of  marriage,  a  most  perfect 
wife. 

3- 

The  mellowed  reflex  of  a  winter  moon ; 

A  clear  stream  flowing  with  a  muddy. 

one,  -  . 

Till  in  its  onward  current  it  absCffv^u 

With   swifter   movement    and  'in 

purer  light  [brother ; 

The  vexed  eddies  of  its  wayward 

A  leaning  and  upbearing  parasite. 

Clothing  the  stem,  which  else  had 

fallen  quite,  [brosial  orbs 

With   cluster'd  flower-bells    and    am- 

Of  rich  fruit-bunches  leaning  on 

each  other —    [hath  not  another 

Shadow   forth   thee;  —  the   world 

( Though  all  her  fairest  forms  are  types 

of  thee, 
And  thou  of  God  in  thy  great  charity)' 
Of  such  a  finish'djChasten'd  purity. 


MAKIAJVA. 


MARIANA. 

"  Mariana  in  the  moated  grange." 

Measure  for  Aleasure. 

With  blackest  moss  the-flovveL-plpts 

Were  thickly  crusTed,  one  and  all : 
The  rusted  nails  fell  from  the  knots 
That  held  the  jtgach  to  the  garden- 
wall,  [strange  : 
The   broken    sheds    look'd    sad    and 
Unlifted  was  the  clinking  latch  : 
Weeded  and  worn  the  ancient  thatch 
Upon  the  lonely  minted  grange. 

She  only  said,  "My  life  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,"  she  said ; 
She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead !  " 

Her  tears  fell  with  the  dews  at  even  ; 
Her   tears   fell  ere   the   dews   were 
dried  : 
She  could  not  look  on  the  sweet  heaven, 

Either  at  morn  or  eventide. 
After  the  flitting  of  the  bats. 

When  thickest  dark  did  trance  the 

sky, 
She  drew  her  casement-curtain  by, 
And  glanced  athwart  the  glooming  flats. 
She   only   said,     "  The    night    is 
dreary, 
He  cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 
She  said,  "  I  am  awearv,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead  !  " 

Upon  the  middle  of  the  night, 

Waking    she    heard   the   night-fowl 
crow  : 
The  'cock  sung  out  an  hour  ere  light : 
'"^i^^om  the  dark  fen  the  oxen's  low 
C...  e  to  her:  without  hope  of  change. 
In  sleep  she  seemed  to  walk  forlorn, 
Till  cold  winds  woke  the  gray-eyed 
morn 
About  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said,  "  The  day  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 

She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

I  would  that  I  were  dead !  " 

About  a  stone-cast  from  the  wall 
A  sluice  with  blacken'd  waters  slept, 

And  o'er  it  many,  round  and  small. 
The  cluster'd  marish-mosses  crept. 


Hard  by  a  poplar  shook  Alway, 
All  silver-gree'n  wTtlTgnarled  bark  : 
For  leagues  no  other  tree  did  mark 
The  level  waste,  the  rounding  gray. 
She  only  said,  "  My  life  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 

She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary^ 

I  would  that  I  were  dead  !  " 

And  eveu  when  the  moon  was  low. 
And  the  shrill  winds  were  up  and 
away. 
In  the  white  curtain,  to  and  fro, 

She  saw  the  gusty  shadow  sway. 
But  when  the  moon  was  very  low, 
And  wild  winds  bound  within  their 

cell. 
The  shadow  of  the  poplar  fell 
Upon  her  bed,  across  her  brow. 

She  only  said,  "  The  night  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,"  she  said ; 

She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

I  would  that  I  were  dead !  " 

All  day  within  the  dreamy  house^.. 

The  doors  upon  their  hinges  creak'd  ; 
The  blue   fly  sung  in  the  pane;    the 
moliise  [shriek'd, 

Behind     the    mouldering     wain§co_t^ 
Or  from  the  crevice  peered  about. 
Old  faces  glimmer'd  thro'  the  doors, 
Old'fpotsteps  trod  the  upper  floors, 
Old  Voices  called  her  from  without. 
■'SBe~x)nly  said,  "  My  life  is  dreary, 
He  cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 
She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead !  " 

The  sparrow's  chirrup  on  the  roof. 

The  slow  clock  ticking,  and  the  sound 
Which  to  the  wooing  wind  aloof 

The  poplar  made,  did  all  confound 
Her  sense ;  but  most  she  loathed  the 
hour 
When  the  thick-moated  sunbeam  lay 
Athwart  the  chambers,  and  the  day 
Was  sloping  toward  his  western  bower. 
Then  said  she,  "  I  am  very  dreary, 

He  will  not  come,"  she  said  ; 

She  wept,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

O  God,  that  I  were  dead  !  " 


10 


TO 


MADELINE. 


TO 


Clear-headed  friend,  whose  joyful 

scorn,  [atwain 

Edged    with    sharp    laughter,   cuts 

The    knots    that    tangle    human 

creeds,  [strain 

The  wounding  cords  that  bind  and 

The  heart  until  it  bleeds, 

Ray-fringed  eyelids  of  the  morn 

Roof  not  a  glance  so"  keen  as 

thine  : 
If  aught  of  prophecy  be  mine, 
Thou  wilt  not  live  in  vain. 

2. 

Low-cowering  shall  the  Sophist  sit ; 

Falsehood    shall    bare    her    plaited 
brow :  [now 

Pair-fronted  Truth  shall  droop  not 
With  shrilling  shafts  of  subtle  wit, 
Nor     martyr-flames,     nor     trenchant 
swords 

Can  do  away  that  ancient  lie  ; 

A  gentler  death  shall  Falsehood  die. 
Shot  thro'  and  thro'  with  cunning  words. 

3- 

Weak  Truth  a-leaning  on  her  crutch. 
Wan,  wasted  Truth  in  her  utmost 

need, 
Thy  kingly  intellect  shall  feed, 
Until  she  be  an  athlete  bold, 
And  weary  with  a  finger's  touch 
Those  writhed   limbs   of    lightning 
speed ;  [old, 

Like  that  strange  angel  which  of 
Until  the  breaking  of  the  light, 
Wrestled  with  wandering  Israel, 
Past   Yabbok    brook    the    livelong 
night, 
And  heaven's  mazed  signs  stood  still 
In  the  dim  tract  of  Penuel. 


MADELINE. 


Thou  art  not  steeped  in  golden  lan- 
guors. 
No  tranced  summer  calm  is  thine, 
Ever  varying  Madeline. 


Thro'   light  and  shadow  thou   dost 

range. 
Sudden  glances,  sweet  and  strange, 
Delicious  spites  and  darling  angers, 
And  airy  forms  of  flitting  change. 


Smiling,  frowning,  evermore, 
Thou  art  perfect  in  love-lore. 
Revealings  deep  and  clear  are  thine 
Of  wealthy  smiles;  but  who  mayknov» 
Whether  smile  or  frown  be  fleeter  t 
Whether  smile  or  frown  be  sweeter, 

Who  may  know } 
Frowns  perfect-sweet  along  the  brow 
Light-glooming  over  eyes  divine, 
Like  little  clouds,  sun-fringed,  are  thine, 
Ever  varying  Madeline. 
Thy  smile  and  frown  are  not  aloof 
From  one  another. 
Each  to  each  is  dearest  brother ; 
Hues  of  the  silken  sheeny  woof 
Momently  shot  into  each  other. 
All  the  mystery  is  thine ; 
Smiling,  frowning,  evermore. 
Thou  art  perfect  in  love-lore, 
Ever  varying  Madeline. 


A  subtle,  sudden  flame, 
By  veering  passion  fann'd, 

About  thee  breaks  and  dances; 
When  I  would  kiss  thy  hand, 
The  flush  of  ^nger'd  shame 

O'erflows  thy  calmer  glances,  ^^ 
And  o'er  black  brows  drops  down 
A  sudden-curved  frown. 
But  when  I  turn  away, 
Thou,  willing  me  to  stay, 

Wooest  not,  nor  vainly  wranglest  \ 

But,  looking  fixedly  the  while. 
All  my  bounding  heart  entanglest 

In  a  golden-netted  smile; 
Then  in  madness  and  in  bliss, 
If  my  lips  should  dare  to  kiss 
Thy  taper  fingers  amorously. 
Again  thou  blushest  angerly  ; 
And  o'er  black  brows  drops  down 
A  sudden-curved  frown. 


SONGS.-^RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS.     1 1 


SONG.— THE  OWL 

I, 

When  cats  run  home  and  light  is  come, 

And  dew  is  cold  upon  the  ground, 

And  the  far-off  stream  is  dumb, 

And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round, 

And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round  ; 

Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits, 

The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 


When  merry  milkmaids  click  the  latch, 
And  rarely  smells  the  new-mown  hay. 
And  the  cock  hath  sung  beneath  the 
thatch     - 
Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay. 
Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay  : 
Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits. 
The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 


SECOND  SONG. 


TO  THE  SAME. 


Thy  tuwhits  are  lull'd  I  wot, 

Thy  tuwhoos  of  yesternight, 
Which  upon  the  dark  afloat. 
So  took  echo  with  delight. 
So  took  echo  with  delight, 
That  her  voice  untuneful  grown. 
Wears  all  day  a  fainter  tone. 

2. 

I  would  mock  thy  chaunt  anew ; 

But  I  cannot  mimic  it ; 
Not  a  whit  of  thy  tuwhoo. 
Thee  to  woo  to  thy  tuwhit, 
Thee  to  woo  to  thy  tuwhit, 
With  a  lengthen'd  loud  halloo, 
Tuwhoo,tuwhit,tuwhit,  tuwhoo-o-o. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE 
ARABIAN  NIGHTS. 

When  the  breeze  of  a  joyful  dawn  blew 
free 

In  the  silken  sail  of  infancy. 
The  tide  of  time  flow'd  back  with  me, 

Th€  forward-flowing  tide  of  time  : 


And  many  a  sheeny  summer-morn, 
Adown  the  Tigris  I  was  borne. 
By  Bagdat's  shrines  of  fretted  gold, 
High-walled  gardens  green  and  old ; 
True  Mussulman  was  I  and  sworn, 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Anight  my  shallop,  rustling  thro' 
The  low  and  bloomed  foliage,  drove 
The   fragrant,   glistening    deeps,   and 

clove 
The  citron-shadows  in  the  blue  : 
By  garden  porches  on  the  brim, 
The  costly  doors  flung  open  wide. 
Gold  glittering  thro'  lamplight  dim. 
And  broider'd  sofas  on  each  side  : 
In  sooth  it  was  a  goodly  time, 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Often,    where    clear-stemm'd    platans 

guard 
The  outlet,  did  I  turn  away 
The  boat-head  down  a  broad  canal 
From  the  main  river  sluiced,  where  all 
The  sloping  of  the  moon-lit  sward 
Was  damask-work,  and  deep  inlay 
Of  braided    blooms    unmown,   which 

crept 

Adown  to  where  the  water  slept. 

A  goodly  place,  a  goodly  time. 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 

Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

A  motion  from  the  river  won 
Ridged  the  smooth  level,  bearing  on 
My  shallop  thro'  the  star-strown  calm, 
Until  another  night  in  night 
I  enter'd,  from  the  clearer  light, 
Imbower'd  vaults  of  pillar'd  palm. 
Imprisoning    sweets,   which    as    they 
clomb  [dome 

Heavenward,  were  stay'd  beneath  the 
Of  hollow  boughs. — A  goodly  time. 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Still  onward ;  and  the  clear  canal 
Is  rounded  to  as  clear  a  lake. 
From  the  green  rivage  many  a  fall 
Of  diamond  rillets  musical, 


Thro'  little  crystal  arches  low 
Down  from  the  central  fountain's  flow 
Fall'n  silver-chiming,  seem'd  to  shake 
The  sparkling  flints  beneath  the  prow. 
A  goodly  place,  a  goodly  time, 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Above  thro'  many  a  bowery  turn 
A  walk  with  vary-color'd  shells 
Wander'd  engrain'd.     On  either  side 
All  round  about  the  fragrant  marge 
From  fluted  vase,  and  brazen  urn 
In  order,  eastern  flowers  large. 
Some  dropping  low  their  crimson  bells 
Half-closed,  and  others  studded  wide 
With  disks  and  tiars,  fed  the  time 
With  odor  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Far  off,  and  where  the  lemon-grove 
In  closest  coverture  upsprung. 
The  living  airs  of  middle  night 
Died  round  the  bulbul  as  he  sung ; 
Not  he :  but  something  which  possess'd 
The  darkness  of  the  world,  delight, 
Life,  anguish,  death,  immortal  love, 
Ceasing  not,  mingled,  unrepress'd, 
Apart  from  place,  withholding  time, 
But  flattering  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Black  the  garden-bowers  and  grots 
Slumber'd :   the    solemn    palms   were 

ranged 
Above,  unwoo'd  of  summer  wind  : 
A  sudden  splendor  from  behind 
Flush'd  all  the  leaves  with  rich  gold- 
green, 
And,  flowing  rapidly  between 
Their  interspaces,  counterchanged 
The  level  lake  with  diamond-plots 
Of  dark  and  bright.     A  lovely  time, 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Dark-blue  the  deep  sphere  overhead, 
Distinct  with  vivid  stars  inlaid. 
Grew  darker  from  that  under-flame  : 
So,  leaping  lightly  from  the  boat, 
With  silver  anchor  left  afloat, 


In  marvel  whence  that  glory  came 
Upon  me,  as  in  sleep  I  sank 
In  cool  soft  turf  upon  the  bank, 
Entranced  with  that  place  and  timcj 
So  worthy  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Thence  thro'  the  garden  I  was  drawn— 
A  realm  of  pleasance,  many  a  mound, 
And  many  a  shadow-chequer'd  lawn 
Full  of  the  city's  stilly  sound, 
And  deep  myrrh-thickets  blowing  round 
The  stately  cedar,  tamarisks, 
Thick  rosaries  of  scented  thorn, 
Tall  orient  shrubs,  and  obelisks 
Graven  with  emblems  of  the  time. 
In  honor  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

With  dazed  vision  unav/ares 
From  the  long  alley's  latticed  shade 
Emerged,  I  came  upon  the  great 
Pavilion  of  the  Caliphat. 
Right  to  the  carven  cedarn  doors, 
Flung  inward  over  spangled  floors, 
Broad-based  flights  of  marble  stairs 
Ran  up  with  golden  balustrade. 
After  the  fashion  of  the  time, 
And  humor  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

The  fourscore  windows  all  alight 
As  with  the  quintessence  of  flame, 
A  million  tapers  flaring  bright 
From  twisted  silvers  look'd  to  shame 
The  hollow-vaulted  dark,  and  stream'd 
Upon  the  mooned  domes  aloof 
In  inmost  Bagdat,  till  there  seem'd 
Hundreds  of  crescents  on  the  roof 

Of  night  new-risen,  that  marvellous 
time. 

To  celebrate  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Then  stole  I  up,  and  trancedly 
Gazed  on  the  Persian  girl  alone. 
Serene  with  argent-lidded  eyes 
Amorous,  and  lashes  like  to  rays 
Of  darkness,  and  a  brow  of  pearl 
Tressed  with  redolent  ebony. 
In  many  a  dark  delicious  curl. 
Flowing  beneath  her  rose-hued  zone  f 


ODE  TO  MEMORY. 


n 


The  sweetest  lady  of  the  time, 
Well  worthy  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Six  columns,  three  on  either  side, 
pure  silver,  underpropt  a  rich 
Throne  of  the  massive  ore,  from  which 
Down-droop'd,  in  many  a  floating  fold, 
Engarlanded  and  diaper'd 
With  inwrought  flowers,  a  cloth  of  gold. 
Thereon,  his  deep  eye  laughter-stirr'd 
With  merriment  of  kingly  pride. 
Sole  star  of  all  that  place  and  time, 
I  saw  him — in  his  golden  prime, 
The  Good  Haroun  Alraschid  ! 


ODE  TO  MEMORY. 
I. 

Thou  who  stealest  fire, 

From  the  fountains  of  the  past, 

To  glorify  the  present ;  oh,  haste, 
Visit  my  low  desire  ! 

Strengthen  me,  enlighten  me ! 

I  faint  in  this  obscurity. 

Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 

2. 

Come  not  as  thou  earnest  of  late. 
Flinging  the  gloom  of  yesternight 
On  the  white  day  ;  but  robed  in  soften'd 
light 

Of  orient  state. 
Whilome  thou  camest  with  the  morning 
mist, 
Even  as  a  maid,  whose  stately  brow 
The  dew-impearled  winds  of  dawn  have 
kiss'd, 

When  she,  as  thou, 

Stays  on  her  floating  locks  the  lovely 

freight  [shoots 

Of   overflowing    blooms,  and   earliest 

Of  orient  green,  giving  safe  pledge  of 

fruits. 
Which  in  wintertide  shall  star 
The  black  earth  will  brilliance  rare. 

3- 
Whilome  thou  camest  with  the  morning 
mist, 
And  with  the  evening  cloud. 
Showering  thy  gleaned  wealth  into  my 
open  breast, 


(Those  peerless  flowers  which  in  the 
rudest  wind 

Never  grow  sere. 
When  rooted  in  the  garden  of  the  mind. 
Because  they  are  the  earliest  of  the 
year). 
Nor  was  the  night  thy  shroud. 
In  sweet  dreams  softer  than  unbroken 
rest  [Hope. 

Thou  leddest  by  the  hand  thine  infant 
The  eddying  of  her  garments  caught 
from  thee  [the  cope 

The  light  of  thy  great  presence ;  and 
Of  the  half-attain'd  futurity. 
Though  deep  not  fathomless. 
Was    cloven  with    the    million    stars 

which  tremble 
O'er  the  deep  mind  of  dauntless  infancy. 
Small  thought  was  there  of  life's  dis- 
tress ;  [could  dull 
For  sure  she  deem'd  no  mist  of  earth 
Those  spirit-thrilling  eyes  so  keen  and 

beautiful : 
Sure  she  was  nigher  to  heaven's  spheres, 
Listening  the  lordly  music  flowing  from 
The  illimitable  years. 

0  strengthen  me,  enlighten  me  ! 

1  faint  in  this  obscurity. 
Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 


Come  forth  I  charge  thee,  arise. 
Thou  of  the  many  tongues,  the  myriad 

eyes !  [ing  vines 

Thou  comest  not  with  shows  of  flaunt- 
Unto  mine  inner  eye, 
Divinest  Memory ! 
Thou  wert  not  nursed  by  the  waterfall 
Which  ever  sounds  and  shines 

A  pillar  of  white  light  upon  the  wall 
Of  purple  cliffs,  aloof  descried  : 
Come  from  the   woods   that  belt  the 

gray  hill -side. 
The  seven  elms,  the  poplars  four 
That  stand  beside  my  father's  door, 
And  chiefly  from  the  brook  that  loves 
To  purl  o'er  matted  cress  and  ribbed 

sand, 
Or  dimple  in  the  dark  of  rushy  coves, 
Drawing  into  his  narrow  earthen  urn. 
In  every  elbow  and  turn. 


The  filter'd  tribute  of  the  rough  wood- 
land. 

O  !  hither  lead  thy  feet ! 
Pour   round    mine    ears  the    livelong 
bleat  [folds, 

Of  the  thick-fleeced  sheep  from  wattled 

Upon  the  ridged  wolds, 
When  the  first  matin-song  hath  waken'd 

loud 
Over  the  dark  dewy  earth  forlorn, 
What  time  the  amber  morn 
Forth  gushes  from  beneath  a  low-hung 
cloud. 

5- 
Large  dowries  doth  the  raptured  eye 
To  the  young  spirit  present 
When  first  she  is  wed ; 

And  like  a  bride  of  old 
In  triumph  led, 

With  music  and  sweet  showers 

Of  festal  flowers. 

Unto    the    dwelling    she   must 

sway.  [Memory, 

Well    hast    thou    done,    great    artist 

In  setting  round  thy  first  experiment 

With  royal  frame-work  of  wrought 

gold ;  [essay, 

Needs  must  thou  dearly  love  thy  first 

And  foremost  in  thy  various  gallery 

Place    it,  where    sweetest  sunlight 

falls 
Upon  the  storied  walls ; 

For  the  discovery 
And  newness  of  thine  art  so  pleased 
thee,  [fairest 

That  all    which    thou    hast  drawn  of 
Or  boldest  since,  but  lightly  weighs 
With  thee  unto  the  love  thou  bearest 
The  first-born  of  thy  genius.     Artist- 
like, 
Ever  retiring  thou  dost  gaze 
On  the  prime  labor  of  thine  early  days  : 
No  matter  what  the  sketch  might  be  ; 
Whether  the  high  field  on  the  bushless 

pike, 
Or  even  a  sand-built  ridge 
Of  heaped  hills  that  mound  the  sea, 
Overblown  with  murmurs  harsh, 
Or  even  a  lowly  cottage  whence  we  see 
Stretch'd  wide    and  wild    the    waste 
enormous  marsh, 


Where  from  the  frequent  bridge, 

Like  emblems  of  infinity, 

The  trenched  waters  run  from  sky  to 

sky; 
Or  a  garden  bower'd  close 
With   plaited    alleys    of    the  trailing 

rose,  [grots. 

Long   alleys   falling  down  to  twilight 
Or  opening  upon  level  plots 
Of  crowned  lilies,  standing  near 
Purple-spiked  lavender : 
Whither  in  after  life  retired 
From  brawling  storms, 
From  weary  wind, 
With  youthful  fancy  reinspired, 
We  may  hold  converse  with  all  forms 
Of  the  many-sided  mind, 
And  those    whom    passion   hath  nol 

blinded, 
Subtle-thoughted,  myriad-minded. 
My  friend,  with  you  to  live  alone, 
Were  how  much  better  than  to  own 
A  crown,  a  sceptre,  and  a  throne  ! 

0  strengthen  me,  enlighten  me  ! 

1  faint  in  this  obscurity, 
Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 


SONG. 


I. 

A  SPIRIT  haunts  the  year's  last  hours 
Dwelling  amid  these  yellowing  bowers : 

To  himself  he  talks  ; 
For  at  eventide,  listening  earnestly, 
At  his  work  you  may  hear  him  sob  and 
sigh 
In  the  walks ; 

Earthward  he  boweth  the  heavy 
stalks 
Of  the  mouldering  flowers  : 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 
Over  its  grave  i'  the  earth  so 
chilly ; 
Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock, 
Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-lily. 


The  air  is  damp,  and  hush'd,  and  close. 
As  a  sick  man's  room  when  he  takctb 
repose 
An  hour  before  death ; 


ADELINE.  -A  CHARACTER. 


15 


My   very  heart  faints  and  my  whole 
soul  grieves  [leaves, 

At  the  moist  rich  smell  of  the  rotting 
And  the  breath 

Of  the    fading    edges    of    box 
beneath, 
!\nd  the  year's  last  rose. 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 
Over  its  grave  i'  the  earth  so 
chilly, 
Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock, 
Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-lily. 


ADELINE. 


I. 


Mystery  of  mysteries. 

Faintly  sm'iling  Adeline, 
Scarce  of  earth  nor  all  divine. 
Nor  unhappy,  nor  at  rest. 
But  beyond  expression  fair 
With  thy  floating  flaxen  hair  ; 
Thy  rose-lips  and  full  blue  eyes 

Take  the  heart  from  out  my  breast. 
Wherefore  those  dim  looks  of  thine, 
Shadowy,  dreaming  Adeline  "i 


Whence  that  aery  bloom  of  thine, 

Like  a  lily  which  the  sun 
Looks  thro'  in  his  sad  decline, 

And  a  rose-bush  leans  upon. 
Thou  that  faintly  smilest  still, 

As  a  Naiad  in  a  well. 

Looking  at  the  set  of  day, 
Or  a  phantom  two  hours  old 

Of  a  maiden  past  away, 
Ere  the  placid  lips  be  cold  ? 
Wherefore  those  faint  smiles  of  thine, 

Spiritual  Adeline  t 

3- 
What  hope  or  fear  or  joy  is  thine  ? 
Who  talketh  with  thee,  Adeline  1 
For  sure  thou  art  not  all  alone : 
Do    beating     hearts     of    salient 
springs 
Keep  measure  with  thine  own  ? 

Hast  thou  heard  the  butterflies 
What  they  say  betwixt  their  wings  ? 


Or  in  stillest  evenings 
With  what  voice  the  violet  woos 
To  his  heart  the  silver  dews  ? 

Or  when  little  airs  arise. 

How  the  merry  bluebell  rings 
To  the  mosses  underneath  .-* 
Hast  thou  look'd  upon  the  breatl 

Of  the  lilies  at  sunrise  t 
Wherefore  that  faint  smile  of  thine, 
Shadowy,  dreaming  Adeline  'i 

4- 
Some  honey-converse  feeds  thy  mind, 
Some  spirit  of  a  crimson  rose 
In  love  with  thee  forgets  to  close 
His  curtains,  wasting  odorous  sighs 
All  night  long  on  darkness  blind. 
What  aileth  thee  ?  whom  waitest  thou 
With  thy  soften'd,  shadow'd  brow. 

And  those  dew-lit  eyes  of  thine 
Thou  faint  smiler,  Adeline  ? 


Lovest  thou  the  doleful  wind 

When  thou  gazest  at  the  skies  ? 
Doth  the  low-tongued  Orient 

Wander  from  the  side  of  the  morn. 
Dripping  with  Sabaean  spice 
On  thy  pillow,  lowly  bent 

With  melodious  airs  lovelorn, 

Breathing  Light  against  thy  face 

While  his  locks  a-dropping  twined 

Round  thy  neck  in  subtle  ring 

Make  a  carcanet  of  rays, 

And  ye  talk  together  still. 
In  the  language  wherewith  Spring 
Letters  cowslips  on  the  hill .'' 
Hence  that  look  and  smile  of  thine. 
Spiritual  Adeline. 


A  CHARACTER. 

With  a  half-glance  upon  the  sky 
At  night  he  said,  *'  The  wanderings 
Of  this  most  intricate  Universe 
Teach  me  the  nothingness  of  thin 
Yet  could  not  all  creation  pierce 
Beyond  the  bottom  of  his  eye. 


IC 


THE  I'OET, 


He  spake  of  beauty  :  that  the  dull 
Saw  no  divinity  in  grass, 
Life  in  dead  stones,  or  spirit  in  air  ; 
Then  looking  as  'twere  in  a  glass, 
He  smooth'd  his  chin  and  sleek'd  his 

hair, 
And  said  the  earth  was  beautiful. 

He  spake  of  virtue  :  not  the  gods 
More  purely,  when  they  wish  to  charm 
Pallas  and  Juno  sitting  by  : 
And  with  a  sweeping  of  the  arm. 
And  a  lack-lustre  dead-blue  eye, 
Devolved  his  rounded  periods. 

Most  delicately  hour  by  hour 
He  canvass'd  human  mysteries, 
And  trod  on  silk,  as  if  the  winds 
Blew  his  own  praises  in  his  eyes, 
And  stood  aloof  from  other  minds 
In  impotence  of  fancied  power. 

With  lips  depress'd  as  he  were  meek. 
Himself  unto  himself  he  sold  : 
Upon  himself  himself  did  feed  : 
Quiet,  dispassionate,  and  cold, 
And  other  than  his  form  of  creed. 
With  chisell'd  features  clear  and  sleek. 


THE  POET. 

The  poet  in  a  golden  clime  was  born. 

With  golden  stars  above  ; 
Dower' d   with   the   hate   of  hate,  the 
scorn  of  scorn, 
The  love  of  love. 

He  saw  thro'  life  and  death,  thro'  good 
and  ill 
He  saw  thro'  his  own  soul. 
The  marvel  of  the  everlasting  will, 
An  open  scroll, 

Before  him  lay :  with  echoing  feet  he 
threaded 
The  secretest  walks  of  fame  : 
The  viewless  arrows  of  his  thoughts 
were  headed 
And  wing'd  with  flame, 


Like  Indian  reeds  blown  from  his  silvei 
tongue. 
And  of  so  fierce  a  flight. 
From  Calpe  unto  Caucasus  they  sung, 
Filling  with  light 

And  vagrant  melodies  the  wmds  which 
bore 
Them  earthward  till  they  lit ; 
Then,  like  the  arrow-seeds  of  the  field 
flower 
The  fruitful  wit 

Cleaving,  took  root,  and  springmg  forth 
anew, 
Where'er  they  fell,  behold. 
Like  to  the  mother  plant  in  semblance, 
grew 
A  flower  all  gold, 

And  bravely  furnish'd   all   abroad  to 
fling 
The  winged  shafts  of  truth. 
To    throng   with    stately   blooms   the 
breathing  spring 
Of  Hope  and  Youth. 

So  many  minds  did  gird  their  orbs  with 
beams, 
Tho'  one  did  fling  the  fire. 
Heaven  flow'd  upon  the  soui  in  many 
dreams 
Of  high  desire. 

Thus  truth  was  multiplied  on  truth,  the 
world 
Like  one  great  garden  show'd. 
And  thro'  the  wreaths  of  floating  dark 
upcurl'd, 
Rare  sunrise  flow'd. 

And  Freedom   rear'd  in  that  august 
sunrise 
Her  beautiful  bold  brow, 
When  rites  and  forms  before  his  burn- 
ing eyes 
Melted  like  snow. 

There  was  no  blood  upon  her  maiden 
robes 
Sunn'd  by  those  orient  skies : 
But   round   about  the    circles  o£    the 
globes 
Of  her  keen  eyes 


THE  POET'S  MIND.  —  THE  SEA-FAIRTES. 


17 


And  in  her  raiment's  hem  was  traced 
in  flame 
Wisdom,  a  name  to  shake 
All  evil  dreams  of   power, — a   sacred 
name. 
And  when  she  spake, 

Her  words  did  gather  thunder  as  they 
ran, 
And  as  the  lightning  to  the  thunder 
Which  follows  it,  riving  the  spirit  of 
man, 
Making  earth  wonder, 

So  was  their  meaning   to  her  words- 
No  sword 
Of  wrath  her  right  arm  whirl 'd, 
But  one  poor  poet's  scroll,  and  with  his 
word 
She  shook  the  world. 


THE  POET'S  MIND. 


Vex  not  thou  the  poet's  mind 

With  thy  shallow  wit: 
Vex  not  thou  the  poet's  mind  ; 

For  thou  canst  not  fathom  it. 
Clear  and  bright  it  should  be  ever, 
Flowing  like  a  crystal  river  ; 
Bright  as  light,  and  clear  as  wind. 


Dark-brow'd  sophist,  come  notanear; 

All  the  place  is  holy  ground ; 
Hollow  smile  and  frozen  sneer 

Come  not  here. 
Holy  water  will  I  pour 
Into  every  spicy  flower 
(:'f    the    laurel-shrubs    that  hedge    it 
around.  [cheer. 

The  flowers  would  faint  at  your  cruel 
In  your  eye  there  is  death, 
There  is  frost  in  your  breath 
V/hich  would  blight  the  plants. 
Where  you  stand  you  cannot  hear 
!Fvom  the  groves  within 
The  wild  bird's  din. 


In  the  heart  of  the  garden  the  merry 

bird  chants, 
It  would  fall  to  the  ground  if  you  came 
in. 
In  the  middle  leaps  a  fountain 
Like  sheet  lightning. 
Ever  brightening 
With  a  low  melodious  thunder  ; 
All  day  and  all  night  it  is  ever  drawn 
P>om  the  brain  of  the  purple  moun 

tain 
Which  stands  in  the  distance  yonder: 
It  springs  on  a  level  of  bowery  lawn, 
And    the    mountain     draws    it    from 

Heaven  above. 
And  it  sings  a  song  of  undying  love  ; 
And  yet,  tho'  its  voice  be  so  clear  and 
full,  [so  dull ; 

You  never  would  hear  it ;  your  ears  are 
So  keep  where  you  are :  you  are  foul 
with  sin ;  [came  in. 

It  would   shrink  to  the  earth  if  you 


THE  SEA-FAIRIES. 

Slow  sail'd  the  weary  mariners  and 
saw,  [ning  foam, 

Betwixt  the  green  brink  and  the  run- 
Sweet    faces,    rounded     arms,    and 
bosoms  prest  [they  mused. 

To  little  harps  of  gold ;  and   while 
Whispering  to  each  other  half  in  fear, 
Shrill   music    reach'd   them  on  the 
middle  sea. 

Whither  away,  whither  away,  whither 

away  ?  fly  no  more. 
Whither  away  from  the  high  green  field, 

and  the  happy  blossoming  shore } 
Day  and  night  to  the  billow  the  foun- 
tain calls  ; 
Down  shower  the  gambolling  waterfalls 
From  wandering  over  the  lea  : 
Out  of  the  live-green  heart  of  the  dells 
They  freshen  the  silvery-crimson  shells, 
And  thick  with  white  bells  the  clover- 
hill  swells 
High  over  the  full-toned  sea: 


i5 


THE  DESERTED  HOUSE.  ^  THE  DYING  SWAN. 


O  hither,  come   hither  and  furl  your 

sails, 
Come  hither  to  me  and  to  me  : 
Hither,  come  hither  and  frolic  and  play; 
Here  it  is  only  the  mew  that  wails  ; 
We  will  sing  to  you  all  the  day : 
Mariner,  mariner,  furl  your  sails, 
For  here  are  the  blissful  dov/ns   and 

dales, 
And  merrily,  merrily  carol  the  gales, 
And  the  spangle  dances  in  bight  and 

bay. 
And  the  rainbow  forms  and  flies  on  the 

land 
Over  the  islands  free  ; 
And  the  rainbow  lives  in  the  curve  of 

the  sand  ; 
Hither,  come  hither  and  see  ; 
And  the  rainbow  hangs  on  the  poising 

wave. 
And  sweet  is  the  color  of  cove  and  cave, 
And  sweet  shall  your  welcome  be  : 
O  hither,  come  hither,  and  be  our  lords 
For  merry  brides  are  we  : 
We  will  kiss  sweet  kisses,  and  speak 

s\\eet  words : 
O  listen,  li-sten,  your  eyes  shall  glisten 
With  pleasure  and  love  and  jubilee  ; 
O  listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glisten 
When  the   sharp   clear  twang  of  the 

golden  chords 
Runs  up  the  ridged  sea. 
Who  can  light  on  as  happy  a  shore 
AH  the  world  o'er,  all  the  world  o'er? 
Whither  away  ?  listen  and  stay  ;    mar- 
iner, mariner,  fly  no  more. 


THE  DESERTED    HOUSE. 


Life  and  Thought  have  gone  away 
Side  by  side, 
Leaving  door  and  windows  wide 
Careless  tenants  they  I 


All  within  is  dark  as  night : 
In  the  Windows  is  no  light; 
And  no  murmur  at  the  door. 
So  frequent  on  its  hinge  before. 


Close  the  door,  the  shutters  close, 
Or  thro'  the  windows  we  shall  see 
The  nakedness  and  vacancy 

Of  the  dark  deserted  house. 


Come  away  :  no  more  of  mirth 

Is  here  or  merry-making  sound. 

The  house  was  builded  of  the  earth, 
And  shall  fall  again,  to  ground. 

5- 
Come  away :  for  Life  and  Thought 
Here  no  longer  dwell ; 
But  in  a  city  glorious — 
A  great  and  distant  city — have  bought 
A  mansion  incorruptible. 

Would  they  could  have  stayed  with 
usl 


THE  DYING  SWAN. 

I. 

The  plain  was  grassy,  wild  and  bare. 
Wide,  wild,  and  open  to  the  air, 

Which  had  built  up  everywhere 
An  under-roof  of  doleful  gray. 

With  an  inner  voice  the  river  ran, 

Adown  it  floated  a  dying  swan. 
And  loudly  did  lament. 
It  was  the  middle  of  the  day. 

Ever  the  weary  wind  went  on. 

And  took  the  reed-tops  as  it  went 


Some  blue  peaks  in  the  distance  rose. 
And  v/hite  against  the  cold-white  sky. 
Shone  out  their  crowning  snows. 

One  willow  over  the  river  wept. 
And  shook  the  wave  as  the  wind  did 

sigh; 
Above  in  the  wind  was  the  swallow, 
Chasing  itself  at  its  own  wild  will. 
And  far  thro*  the  marish  green  and  still 

The  tangled  water-courses  slept. 
Shot  over  with  purple,  and  green,  and 
yellow. 


The  wild  swan's  death-hymn  took  the 

soul 
Of  that  waste  place  with  joy 
H  idden  in  sorrow  :  at  first  to  the  ear 
The  warble  was  low,  and  full  and  clear; 
And  floating  about  the  under-sky, 
Prevailing  in  weakness,  the  coronach 

stole  ; 
Sometimes  afar,  and  sometimes  anear, 
But  anop  her  awful  jubilant  voice. 
With  a  music  strange  and  manifold, 
Flow'd  forth  on  a  carol  free  and  bold  ; 
As  when  a  mighty  people  rejoice 
With  shawms,  and  with  cymbals,  and 

harps  of  gold, 
And  the  tumult  of  their  acclaim  is  roll'd 
Thro'  the  open  gates  of  the  city  afar, 
To  the  shepherd  who  watcheth  the 
evening  star.  [ing  weeds, 

And  the  creeping  mosses  and  clamber- 
And    the    willow-branches    hoar   and 
dank,  [reeds, 

And  the  wavy  swell  of  the  soughing 
And  the  wave-worn  horns  of  the  echo- 
ing band,  [throng 
And  the  siivery  marish- flowers  that 
The  desolate  creeks  and  pools  among, 
Were  flooded  over  with  eddying  song. 


A  DIRGE. 
I. 

Now  is  done  thy  long  day's  work  ; 
Fold  thy  palms  across  thy  breast. 
Fold  thine  arms,  turn  to  thy  rest. 

Let  them  rave. 
Shadows  of  the  silver  birk 
Sweep  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


Thee  nor  carketh  care  nor  slander  ; 
Nothing  but  the  small  cold  worm 
Fretteth  thine  enshrouded  form. 

Let  them  rave. 
Light  and  shadow  ever  wander 
O'er  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


Thou  wilt  not  turn  upon  thy  bed; 
Chanteth  not  the  brooding  bee 
Sweeter  tones  than  calumny  ? 

Let  them  rave. 
Thou  wilt  never  raise  thine  head 
From  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave 

Let  them  rave. 

4- 
Crocodiles  wept  tears  for  thee  ; 
The  woodbine  and  eglatere 
Drip  sweeter  dews  than  traitor's  tear. 

Let  them  rave. 
Rain  makes  music  in  the  tree 
O'er  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 

5- 
Round  thee  blow,  self-pleacned  deep, 
Bramble-roses,  faint  and  pale, 
And  long  purples  of  the  dale. 

Let  them  rave. 
These  in  every  shower  creep 
Thro'  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


The  gold-eyed  kingcups  fine  ; 
The  frail  bluebell  peereth  over 
Rare  broidry  of  the  purple  clover. 

Let  them  rave. 
Kings  have  no  such  couch  as  thine, 
As  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 

7. 
Wild  words  wander  here  and  there ; 
God's  great  gift  of  speech  abused 
Makes  thy  memory  confused  : 

But  let  them  rave. 
The  balm-cricket  carols  clear 
In  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


LOVE  AND   DEATH. 

What  time  the  mighty  moon  was  gatlv 

er!ng  light 
Love  paced  the  thymy  plots  of  Paradise, 
And  all  about  him  roll'd  his  lustrous 

eyes; 


?o 


THE  BALLAD  OF  OKIANA. 


When,  turning  round  a  cassia,  full  in 

view 
Death,  walking  all  alone  beneath  a  yew, 
And  talking  to  himself,  first  met  his 

sight :  [walks  are  mine." 

'''  You  must  begone,^'  said  Death,  "  these 
Love  wept  and  spread  his  sheeny  vans 

for  flight ;  [is  thine  ; 

Yet   ere   he   parted   said,  "This  hour 
Thou  art  the  shadow  of  life,  and  as  the 

tree  [neath, 

Stands  in  the  sun  and  shadows  all  be- 
So  in  the  light  of  great  eternity 
Life  eminent  creates  the  shade  of  death ; 
The  shadow  passeth  when  the  tree  shall 

fall, 
But  I  shall  reigvi  forever  over  all." 


THE   BALLAD   OF   ORIANA. 

My  heart  is  wasted  with  my  woe, 

Oriana. 
There  is  no  rest  for  me  below, 

Oriana. 
When  the  long  dun  wolds  are  ribb'd 

with  snow. 
And  loud  the  Norland  whirlwinds  blow, 

Oriana, 
Alone  I  wander  to  and  fro, 

Oriana. 

Ere  the  light  on  dark  was  growing, 

Oriana, 
At  midnight  the  cock  was  crowing, 

Oriana : 
Winds  were  blowing,  waters  flowing, 
We  heard  the  steeds  to  battle  going, 

Oriana ; 
Aloud  the  hollow  bugle  blowing, 

Oriana. 

In  the  yew-wood  black  as  night, 

Oriana, 
Ere  I  rode  into  the  fight, 

Oriana, 
While  blissful  tears  blinded  my  sight 
By  star-shine  and  by  moonlight, 

Oriana, 
I  to  thee  my  troth  did  plight, 

Oriana. 


She  stood  upon  the  castle  wall, 

Oriana  : 
She  watch' d  my  crest  among  them  all, 

Oriana: 
She  saw  me  fight,  she  heard  me  call. 
When  forth  there  stept  a  foeman  tall, 

Oriana, 
Atween  me  and  the  castle  wall, 

Oriana. 

The  bitter  arrow  went  aside, 

Oriana  : 
The  false,  false  arrow  went  aside, 

Oriana  : 
The  damned  arrow  glanced  aside, 
And  pierced  thy  heart,  my  love,  my 
bride, 

Oriana! 
Thy  heart,  my  life,  my  love,  my  bride, 

Oriana ! 

Oh  !  narrow,  narrow  was  the  space, 

Oriana. 
Loud,  loud  rung  out  the  bugle's  brays, 

Oriana. 
Oh  !  deathful  stabs  were  dealt  apace. 
The  battle  deepen'd  in  its  place, 

Oriana  ; 
But  I  was  down  upon  my  face, 

Oriana. 

They  should  have  stabb'd  me  where  I 
lay, 

Oriana ! 
How  could  I  rise  and  come  away, 

Oriana  .^ 
How  could  I  look  upon  the  day  ? 
They  should  have  stabb'd  me  where  I 
lay, 

Oriana — 
They  should  have  trod  me  into  clay, 

Oriana. 

O  breaking  heart  that  will  not  break, 

Oriana! 
O  pale,  pale  face  so  sweet  and  meek, 

Oriana  ! 
Thou  smilest,  but  thou  dost  not  speak. 
And  then  the  tears  run  down  my  cheek, 

Oriana :  [seek, 

What  wantest  thou?  whom  dost  thou 

Oriana  t 


CIRCUMSTANCE.—  THE  MERMAN. 


21 


I  cry  aloud  :  none  hear  my  cries, 

Oriana. 
Thou  comest  atween  me  and  the  skies, 

Oriana. 
I  feel  the  tears  of  blood  arise 
Up  from  my  heart  unto  my  eyes, 

Oriana. 
Within  thy  heart  my  arrow  lies, 

Oriana. 

O  cursed  hand  !  O  cursed  blow ! 
Oriana ! 

0  happy  thou  that  liest  low, 

Oriana ! 
All  night  the  silence  seems  to  flow 
Beside  me  in  my  utter  woe, 

Oriana. 
A  weary,  weary  way  I  go, 

Oriana. 

When  Norland  winds  pipe  down  the 
sea, 

Oriana, 

1  walk,  I  dare  not  think  of  thee, 

Oriana. 
Thou  liest  beneath  the  greenwood  tree, 
I  dare  not  die  and  come  to  thee, 

Oriana. 
I  hear  the  roaring  of  the  sea, 

Oriana. 


CIRCUMSTANCE. 

Two  children  in  two  neighbor  villages 

Playing  mad  pranks  along  the  healthy 
leas  ; 

Two  strangers  meeting  at  a  festival ; 

Two  lovers  whispering  by  an  orchard 
wall ;  [ease  ; 

Two  lives  bound  fast  in  one  with  golden 

Two  graves  grass-green  beside  a  gray 
church-tower, 

Wash'd  with  still  rains  and  daisy-blos- 
somed ; 

Two  children  in  one  hamlet  born  and 
bred  ; 

So  runs  the  round  of  life  from  hour  to 
hour. 


THE  MERMAN. 


Who  would  be 
A  merman  bold, 
Sitting  alone, 
Singing  alone 
Under  the  sea. 
With  a  crown  of  gold, 
On  a  throne  t 

2. 

I  would  be  a  merman  bold  ;  [day ; 
I  would  sit  and  sing  the  whole  of  the 
I  would  fill  the  sea-halls  with  a  voice 
of  power ;  [and  play 

But  at  night  I  would  roam  abroad 
With  the  mermaids  in  and  out  of  the 
•  rocks,  [sea-flower  ; 

Dressing  their  hair  with  the  white 
And  holding  them  back  by  their  flow- 
ing locks 
I  would  kiss  them  often  under  the  sea, 
And  kiss  them  again  till  they  kiss'd 
me 
Laughingly,  laughingly ; 
And  then  we  would  wander  away, 
away  [and  high, 

To  the  pale-green  sea-groves  straight 
Chasing  each  other  merrily. 

3- 
There  would  be  neither  moon  nor  star, 
But  the  wave  would  make  music  above 
us  afar —  [night- 

Low  thunder  and  light  in  the  magic 

Neither  moon  nor  star. 

We  would  call  aloud  in  the  dreamy 

dells,  [cry 

Call  to  each  other  and  whoop  and 

All  night,  merrily,  merrily; 

Tliey  would  pelt  me  with  starry  spangles 

and  shells,  [between, 

Laughing  and  clapping  their  hands 

All  night,  merrily,  merrily  : 
But  I  would  throw  to  them  back  in 

mine 
Turkis  and  agate  and  almondine  : 
Then  leaping  out  upon  them  unseen 
I  would  kiss  them  often  under  the  sea. 
And  kiss  them  again  till  they  kiss'd 
me 
Laughingly,  laughingly. 


22 


THE  MERMAID.  — SONNET  TO  J.  M.  K. 


Oh  !  what  a  happy  life  were  mine 
Under  the  hollow-hung  ocean  green ! 
Soft  are  the  moss-beds  under  the  sea ; 
We  would  live  merrily,  merrily. 


THE  MERMAID. 

Who  would  be 
A  mermaid  fair, 
Singing  alone. 
Combing  her  hair 
Under  the  sea, 
In  a  golden  curl 
With  a  comb  of  pearl. 
On  a  throne  t 

2. 

I  would  be  a  mermaid  fair  ; 
I  would  sing  to  myself  the  whole  of 
the  day ;  [my  hair ; 

With  a  comb  of  pearl  I  would  comb 
And  still  as  I  comb'd  I  would  sing 
and  say,  [me  "i  " 

"  Who  is  it  loves  me  ?  who  loves  not 
I  would  comb  my  hair  till  my  ring- 
lets would  fall. 
Low  adown,  low  adown, 
From  under  my  starry  sea-bud  crown 
Low  adown  and  around,      [gold 
And  I  should  look  like  a  fountain  of 
Springing  alone 
With  a  shrill  inner  sound, 

Over  the  throne 
In  the  midst  of  the  hall : 
Till  that  great  sea-snake  under  the  sea 
From  his  coiled  sleeps  in  the  central 

deeps 
Would  slowly  trail  himself  sevenfold 
Round  the  hall  where  I  sate,  and  look 
in  at  the  gate  [of  me. 

With  his  large  calm  eyes  for  the  love 
And  all  the  mermen  under  the  sea 
Would  feel  their  immortality 
Die  in  their  hearts  for  the  love  of  me. 

3- 

But  at   night  I  would  wander   away, 

away,  [flowing  locks, 

I  would  fling  on  each  side  my  low- 

And  lightly  vault  from  the  throne  and 

play  [rocks ; 

With  the  mermen  in  and  out  of  the 


We  would  run  to  and  fro,  and  hide  and 

seek,  [son  shells, 

On  the  broad  sea-wolds  in  the  crim- 
Whose  silvery  spikes  are  nighest  the 

sea.  [shriek, 

But  if  any  came  near  I  would  call,  and 
And  adown   the  steep  like  a  wave  I 

would  leap  [from  the  dells  ; 

From   the    diamond-ledges  that  jut 

For  I  would  not  be  kiss'd  by  all  who 

would  list,  [sea ; 

Of  the  bold  merry  mermen  under  the 
They  would  sue  me,  and  woo  me,  and 

flatter  me, 
In  the  purple  twilights  under  the  sea ; 
But  the  king  of  them  all  would  carry 

me. 
Woo  me,  and  win  me,  and  marry  me. 
In  the  branching  jaspers  under  the  sea; 
Then  all  the  dry  pied  things  that  be 
In  the  hueless  mosses  under  the  sea 
Would  curl  round  my  silver  feet  silently. 
All  looking  up  for  the  love  of  me. 
And  if  I  should  carol  aloud,  from  aloft 
All  things  that  are  forked,  and  horned, 

and  soff  [of  the  sea, 

Would  lean  out  from  the  hollow  sphere 
All  looking  down  for  the  love  of  me. 


SONNET  TO  J.  M.  K. 

My  hope  and  heart  is  with  thee — thou 

wilt  be 
A  latter  Luther,  and  a  soldier-priest 
To    scare     church-harpies    from    the 
master's  feast ;  [thee  ; 

Our  dusted  velvets  have  much  need  of 
Thou  art  no  sabbath-drawler  of  old  saws, 
Distill 'd    from    some    worm-canker'd 

homily ; 
But  spurr'd  at  heart  with  fieriest  energy 
To  embattail  and  to  wall  about  thy  cause 
With  iron-worded  proof,  hating  to  hark 
The   humming  of  the  drowsy  pulpit- 
drone  [worn-out  clerk 
Half  God's  good   sabbath,  while  the 
Brow-beats  his  desk  below.    Thou  from 
a  throne  [dark 
Mounted  in  heaven  wilt  shoot  into  the 
Arrows  of  lightnings.     I  will  stand  and 
mark. 


**  Out  flew  the  web  and  Jtoatec^'wiHc  ;\  . 
The  mirror  cracked  from  ^idch^scd:  ;' 
*  The  curse  is  come  upon  me,^  cried 
The  Lady  of  ShalottJ^ 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


POEMS 


(published   1832.) 

[This  division  of  this  volume  was  published  in  the  winter  of  1832.  Some  of  the  poems  hav^ 
been  considerably  altered.  Others  liave  been  added,  which,  with  one  exception,  were  wriiien 
in  1833.] 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT. 


On  either  side  the  river  lie 
Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye, 
—  That  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky ; 
And  thro'  the  field  the  road  runs  by 

To  many  tower'd  Camelot; 
And  up  and  down  the  people  go, 
Gazing  where  the  lilies  blow 
Round  an  island  there  below, 

The  island  of  Shalott. 

Willows  whiten,  aspens  quiver, 
Little  breezes,  dusk  and  shiver 
.  Thro'. the  wave  that  runs  forever 
By  the  island  in  the  river 

Flowing  down  to  Camelot. 
Four  gray  wajls,  and  four  gray  towers, 
Overlook  a  space  of  flowers, 
And  the  silehtjsle  imbowers 
Lady  of 


The 


ly 


Shalott. 


By  the  margin,  willow-veil'd, 
Slide  the  heavy  barges  trail'd 
By  slow  hprses ;  and  unhail'd 
.The  shallop  flitteth  silken-sail'd 

"""Skimming  down  to  Camelot : 
But  who  hath  seen  her  wave  her  hand  ? 
Or  at  the  casement  seen  her  stand  .'* 
Or  is  she  known  in  all  the  land, 
The  Lady  of  Shalott  ? 

Only  reapers,  reaping  early 
In  among  the  bearded  barley, 
Hear  a  song  that  echoes  cheerly 
From  the  river  winding  clearly, 

Down  to  tower'd  Camelot : 
And  by  the  moon  the  reaper  weary, 
Piling  sheaves  in  uplands  airy. 
Listening,  whispers,  "  'Tis  the  fairy 

Lady  of  Shalott." 


PART  ir. 

There  she  weaves  by  night  and  day 
A  magic  web  of  colors  gay. 
She  has  heard  a  whisper  say, 
A  curse  is  on  her  if  she  stay 

To  look  down  to  Camelot. 
She  knows  not  what  the  curse  may  be, 
And  so  she  weaveth  steadily, 
And  little  other  care  hath  she, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  moving  thro'  gL.mirror  clear 
That  hangs  before  her  all  the  year, 
Shadows  of  the  world  appear. 
There- she  sees  the  highway  near 

Winding  down  to  Camelot : 
There  the  river  eddy  whirls, 
And  there  the  surly  village-churls, 
And  the  red  cloaks  of  market  girls, 

Pass  onward  from  Shalott. 

Sometimes  a  troop  gf^damsels  glad, 
An  abbot  on  an  ambling  pad. 
Sometimes  a  curly  shepherd-lad, 
Or  long-h&ir'd  page  in  crimson  clad. 

Goes  by  to  tower'd  Camelot ; 
And  sometimes  thro'  the  mirror  blue 
The  knights  come  riding  two  and  two : 
She  hath  no  loyal  knight  and  true, 

The^Lady  of  Shalott. 

But  in  her  web  she  still  delights 
To  weave  the  mirror's  magic  sights,^' 
For  often  thro'  the  silent  nights 
A  f  i^ieral,  with  plumes  and  lights, 

And  music,  went  to  Camelot : 
Or  when  the  moon  was  overhead. 
Came  two  young  lovers  lately  wed  ; 
"  I  am  half-sick  of  shadows,"  said 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 
(23) 


24 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT. 


A  BOV'-biiOT  froni  her  bov\er-eaves. 
He  rode  between  the  oaile^-sheaves, 
The  sun  came  dazzling  thro'  the  leaves, 
And  flamed  upon  the  brazen  greaves 

Of  bold  Sir  Lancelot. "  " 
A  redcross  knight  forever  kneeled 
To  a  lady  in  his  shield, 
That  sparkled  on  the  yellow  field, 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

The  gemmy  bridle  glitter'd  free, 
Like  to  some  branch  of  stars  we  see 
Hung  in  the  golden  Galaxy. 
The  bridle  bells  rang  merrily 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot : 
And  from  his  blazon'd  baldric  slung 
A  mighty  silver  bugle  hung, 
And  as  he  rode  his  armor  rung, 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

All  in  the  blue  unclouded  weather 
Thick-jewell'd  shone  the  saddle-leather. 
The  helmet  and  the  helmet-feather 
Burned    like    one   burning   flame   to- 
gether. 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
As  often  thro'  the  purple  night. 
Below  the  starry  clusters  bright, 
Some  bearded  meteor,  trailing  light, 
Moves  over  still  ShaJott. 

His   broad   clear    brow   in     sunlight 
glow'd  ;  [trode  ; 

On    burnish'd   hooves  his  war-horse 
From  underneath  his  helmet  flow'd 
His  coal-black  curls  as  on  he  rode, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
From  the  bank  and  from  the  river 
He  flash'd  into  the  crystal  mirror, 
"  Tirra  lirra,"  by  the  river 

Sang  Sir  Lancelot. 

She  left  the  web,  she  left  the  loom. 
She  made  three  paces  thro'  the  room, 
She  saw  the  water-lily  bloom. 
She  saw  the  helmet  and  the  plume. 

She  look'd  down  to  Camelot. 
Out  flew  the  web  and  floated  wide  ; 
The  mirror  crack'd  from  side  to  side  ; 
"  The  curse  is  come  upon  me,"  cried 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


In  the  stormy  east-wind  straining, 
The  pale  yellow  woods  were  waning, 
The  broad  stream  in  his  banks  com- 
plaining,   ■ 
Heavily  the  low  sky  raining 

Over  tower'd  Camelot; 
Down  she  came  and  found  a  boat 
Beneath  a  willow  left  afloat, 
And  round  about  the  prow  she  wrote 
The  Lady  of  Shalott, 

And  down  the  river's  dim  expanse- 
Like  some  bold  seer  in  a  trance, 
Seeing  all  his  own  mischance — 
With  a  glassy  countenance 

Did  she  look  to  Camelot. 
And  at  the  closing  of  the  day 
She  loosed  the   chain,  and  down  she 

lay  ; 
The  broad  stream  bore  her  far  away. 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Lying,  robed  in  snowy  white 
That  loosely  flew  to  left  and  right — 
The  leaves  upon  her  falling  light — 
Thro'"  the  noises  of  the  night 

She  floated  down  to  Camelot ; 
And  as  the  boat-head  wound  along 
The  willowy  hills  and  fields  among. 
They  heard  her  singing  her  last   song. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Heard  a  carol,  mournful,  holy, 
Chanted  loudly,  chanted  lowly. 
Till  her  blood  was  frozen  slowly. 
And  her  eyes  were  darken'd  wholly, 

Turn'd  to  tower'd  Camelot ;   '• 
For  ere  she  reach'd  upon  the  tide 
The  first  house  by  the  watcr-^'**^"'  ^'''' 
Singing  in  her  song  she  died, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott.    '^fm^^ 

Under  tower  and  balcony. 

By  garden-wall  and  gallery, 

A  gleaming  shape  she  floated  by, 

A  corse  between  the  houses  high, 

Silent  into  Camelot. 
Out  upon  the  wharfs  they  came. 
Knight  and  burgher,  lord  and  dame 
And  round  the  prow  they    read 
name, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


MARIANA  IN  THE  SOUTH. 


25 


Who  is  this ?  and  what  is  here? 
And  in  the  lighted  palace  near 
Died  the  sound  of  royal  cheer : 
And  they  cross'd  themselves  for  fear, 

All  the  knights  at  Camelot : 
But  Lancelot  mused  a  little  space  : 
He  said,  "  She  has  a  lovely  face  : 
God  in  his  mercy  lend  her  grace, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott." 


MARIANA  IN  THE  SOUTH. 

With  one  black  shadow  at  its  feet, 

The  house  thro'  all  the  level  shines, 
Close-latticed  to  the  brooding  heat. 

And  silent  in  its  dusty  vines  : 

A  faint-blue  ridge  upon  the  right, 

An  empty  river-bed  before. 

And  shallows  on  a  distant  shore, 

In  glaring  sand  and  inlets  bright. 

But  "  Ave  Mary,"  made  she  moan, 
And  "Ave   Mary,"  night    and 
morn,  [alone. 

And  "  Ah,"  she  sang,    "to   be  all 
To  live  forgotten,  and  love  for- 
lorn." 

She,  as  her  carol  sadder  grew. 

From  brow  and  bosom  slowly  down 
Thro'  rosy  taper  fingers  drew 

Her  streaming  curls  of  deepest  brown 
To  left  and  right,  and  made  appear, 
Still-li,  hted  in  a  secret  shrine, 
Her  mel  ncholy  eyes  divine. 
The  home  of  woe  without  a  tear. 

And  "  Ave  Mary,"  was  her  moan, 

"  Madonna,    sad  is   night    and 

morn"  ; 

And  "Ah,"  she  sang,  "to  be  all 

alone,  [lorn." 

To  live  forgotten,  and  love  for- 

Till  all  the  crimson  changed,  and  past 
Into  deep  orange  o'er  the  sea. 

Low  on  her  knees  herself  she  cast, 
Before  Our  Lady  murmur'd  she  ; 

Complaining,  "  Mother,  give  me  grace 
To  help  me  of  my  weary  load." 
And  on  the  liquid  mirror  glow'd 

The  clear  perfection  of  her  face. 


"  Is  this  the  form,"  she  made  her 

moan,  [morn  .'' " 

"  That  won  his  praises  night  and 

And  "  Ah,"  she  said,  "  but  I  wake 

alone,  [lorn." 

I  sleep  forgotten,   I  wake  for- 

Nor  bird  would  sing,  nor  lamb  would 
bleat. 
Nor  any  cloud  would  cross  the  vault, 
But  day  increased  from  heat  to  heat. 

On  stony  drought  and  steaming  salt ; 
Till  now  at  noon  she  slept  again, 
And  seem'd  knee-deep  in  mountain 

grass, 
And  heard  her  native  breezes  pass. 
And  runlets  babbling  down  the  glen. 
She    breathed  in    sleep  a   lower 
moan,  [morn, 

And  murmuring,  as  at  night  and 
She  thought,  "My  spirit  is  here 
alone. 
Walks  forgotten,  and  is  forlorn." 

Dreaming,  she  knew  it  was  a  dream : 
She  felt  he  was  and  was  not  there. 
She  woke  :  the  babble  of  the  stream 
Fell,  and  without  the  steady  glare 
Shrank  one  sick  willow  sere  and  smalh 
The  river-bed  was  dusty-white  ; 
And  all  the  furnace  of  the  light 
Struck  up  against  the  blinding  wall. 
She  whisper'd,  with  a  stifled  moan 
More  inward  than  at  night  or 
'    morn,  [alone 

"  Sweet  Mother,  let  me  not  here 
Live  forgotten  and  die  forlorn." 

And,  rising,  from  her  bosom  drew 

Old  letters  breathing  of  her  worth, 
For  "  Love,"  they  said,   "  must  needs 
be  true, 
To  what  is  loveliest  upon  earth." 
An  image  seem'd  to  pass  the  door, 
To  look  at  her  with  slight,  and  say, 
"  But  now  thy  beauty  flows  away, 
So  be  alone  forevermore." 

"  O  cruel  heart,"  she  changed  her 

tone,  [scorn, 

"And  cruel  love,  whose  end  is 

Is  this  the  end  to  be  left  alone. 

To    live  forgotten,  and  die  for* 

lorn  1  " 


25 


ELEANORE. 


But  sometimes  in  the  falling  day 

An  image  seem'd  to  pass  the  door, 
To  look  into  her  eyes  and  say, 

"  But  thou  shalt  be  alone  no  more." 
And  flaming  downward  over  all 

From   heat     to    heat   the    day   de- 
creased, 
And  slowly  rounded  to  the  east 
The  one  black  shadow  from  the  wall. 
"  The  day  to  night,"  she  made  her 
moan,  [morn, 

*'  The  day  to  night,  the  night  to 
And  day  and  night  I  am  left  alone 
To  live  forgotten,  and  love  for- 
lorn." 

At  eve  a  dry  cicala  sung. 

There  came  a  sound  as  of  the  sea  ; 
Backward  the  lattice-blind  she  flung. 

And  lean'd  upon  the  balcony. 
There  all  in  spaces  rosy-bright 

Large  Hesper  glitter'd  on  her  tears. 
And  deepening  through   the  silent 
spheres, 
Heaven  over  Heaven  rose  the  night. 
And'weeping  then  she  made  her 
moan,  [not  morn, 

"  The  night  comes  on  that  knows 
When  I  shall  cease  to  be  all  alone. 
To  live  forgotten,  and  love  for- 
lorn." 


ELEANORE. 


Thy  dark  eyes  open'd  not,       [lish  air, 
Nor  first  reveal'd  themselves  to  Eng- 

For  there  is  nothing  here. 
Which,   from   the  outward  to  the  in- 
ward brought. 
Moulded  thy  baby  thought. 
Far  off  from  human  neighborhood. 

Thou   wert    born,  on    a  summer 
morn, 
A  mile  beneath  the  cedar-wood. 
Thy  bounteous  forehead  was  not  fann'd 

With    breezes    from    our     oaken 

glades,  [land 

But  thou  wert  nursed  in  some  delicious 

Of  lavish  lights,and  floating  shades : 


And  flattering  thy  childish  thought 
The  oriental  fairy  brought. 
At  the  moment  of  thy  birth, 
From  old  well-heads  of  haunted  rills, 
And  the  hearts  of  purple  hills,    [shore. 
And  shadow'd  coves  on  a  sunny 
The  choicest  wealth  of  all  the 
earth. 
Jewel  or  shell,  or  starry  ore. 
To  deck  thy  cTradle,  Eleiinorc. 


Or  the  yellow-banded  bees. 
Thro'  half-open  lattices 
Coming  in  the  scented  breeze. 

Fed  thee,  a  child,  lying  alone, 
With  whitest  honey  in  fairy  gar- 
dens cull'd — 
A  glorious  child,  dreaming  alone. 
In   silk-soft    folds,   upon   yielding 
down, 
With  the  hum  of  swarming  bees 

Into  dreamful  slumber  luU'd. 

3- 

Who  may  minister  to  thee.? 
Summer  herself  should  minister 

To    thee,    with    fruitage    golden- 
rinded 
On  golden  salvers,  or  it  may  be, 
Youngest  Autumn,  in  a  bower  [blinded 
Grape  thicken'd  from    the    light    and 
With  many  a  deep-hued  bell-like 
flower 
Of  fragrant  trailers,  when  the  air 
Sleepeth  over  all  the  heaven. 
And  the  crag  that  fronts  the  Even, 
All  along  the  shadowing  shore, 
Crimsons  over  an  inland  mere, 
Eleanore  ! 


How  may  full-sail'd  verse  express, 
How  may  measured  words  adore 
The  full-flowing  harmony 
Of  thy  swan-like  stateliness, 
Eleanore  ? 
The  luxuriant  symmetry 
Of  thy  floating  gracefulness, 
Eleanore .-' 


ELElNORE. 


Every  turn  and  glance  of  thine,  , 
Every  lineament  divine, 

Eleanore, 
And  the  steady  sunset  glow, 
That  stays  upon  thee  ?     For  in 
thee  [single  : 

Is    nothing    sudden,    nothing 
Like  two  streams  of  incense  free 
From   one    censer,    in    one 
shrine,  [gle, 

Thought   and   motion  min- 
Mingle  ever.     Motions  flow 
To  one  another,  even  as  tho' 
They  were  modulated  so 
To  an  unheard  melody, 
Which  lives  about  thee,  and  a  sweep 

Of  richest  pauses,  evermore 
Drawn  from  each  other  mellow-deep : 
Who  may  express  thee,  Eleanore  ? 


I  stand  before  thee,  Eleanore ; 

I  see  thy  beauty  gradually  unfold. 
Daily  and  hourly,  more  and  more. 
I  muse,  as  in  a  trance,  the  while 

Slowly,  as  from  a  cloud  of  gold. 
Comes  out  thy  deep  ambrosial  smile. 
I  muse,  as  in  a  trance,  whene'er 

The  languors  of  thy  love-deep  eyes 
Float  on  to  me.     I  would  I  were 

So  tranced,  so  wrapt  in  ecstasies, 
To  stand  apart,  and  to  adore, 
Gazing  on  thee  forevermore, 
Serene,  imperial  Eleanore  ! 

6. 

Sometimes,  with  most  intensity 
Gazing,  1  seem  to  see  [asleep, 

Thought  folded  over  thought,  smiling 
Slowly   awaken'd,    grow    so   full   and 
deep  [quite. 

In   thy  large   eyes,  that,  overpower'd 
I  cannot  veil,  or  droop  my  sight. 
But  am  as  nothing  in  its  light : 
As  tho'  a  star,  in  inmost  heaven  set, 
Ev'n  while  we  gaze  on  it,   [slowly  grow 
Should    slowly    round    his    orb,    and 
To  a  full  face,  there  like  a  sun  remain 
Fix'd — then  as  slowly  fade  again. 

And  draw  itself  to  what  it  was  be- 
fore ; 


So  full,  so  deep,  so  slow, 
Thought  seems  to  come  and  go 
In  thy  large  eyes,  imperial  Elea- 


As  thunder-clouds  that,  hung  on  high, 
Roof'd  the  world  with  doubt  and 
fear. 
Floating  thro'  an  evening  atmosphere, 
Grow  golden  all  about  the  sky  ;     [less, 
In  thee   all  passion  becomes  passion- 
Touch'd  by  thy  spirit's  mellowness. 
Losing  his  fire  and  active  might 

In  a  silent  meditation, 
Falling  into  a  still  delight. 

And  luxury  of  contemplation : 
As  waves  that  up  a  quiet  cove 
Rolling  slide,  and  lying  still 
Shadow  forth  the  banks  at  will : 
Or  sometimes  they  swell  and  move. 
Pressing  up  against  the  land, 
With  motions  of  the  outer  sea : 
And  the  self-same  influence 
Controlleth    all    the    soul    and 
sense 
Of  Passion  gazing  upon  thee.  . 
His  bow-string  slacken'd  languid  Love, 
Leaning  his  cheek  upon  his  hand, 
Droops   both   his    wings,  regarding 
thee. 
And  so  would  languish  evermore. 
Serene,  imperial  Eleanore. 


But  when  I  see  thee  roam,  with  tresses 

unconfined, 
While  the  amorous,  odorous  wind 
Breathes  low  between  the  sunset  and 
the  moon ; 
Or,  in  a  shadowy  saloon. 
On  silken  cushions  half  reclined ; 

I   watch   thy  grace  ;  and  in  it!i 
place 
My  heart  a  charmed  slumber  keeps, 

While  I  muse  upon  thy  face ; 
And  a  languid  fire  creeps 

Thro'  my  veins  to  all  my  frame, 
Dissolvingly  and  slowly  :  soon 

From  thy  rose-red  lips  MY  namy 
Floweth ;  and  then,  as  in  a  swoon, 


28 


THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER. 


With  dinning  sound  my  ears  arc  rife, 
My  tremulous  tongue  faltereth, 
I  lose  my  color,  I  lose  my  breath, 
I  drink  the  cup  of  a  costly  death, 
Brimm'd    with   delirious   draughts    of 
warmest  life. 
I  die  with  my  delight,  before 
I  hear  what  I  would  hear  from 

thee  ; 
Yet  tell  my  name  again  to  me, 
I  would  be  dying  evermore. 
So  dying  ever,  Eleanore. 


THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER. 

I  SEE  the  wealthy  miller  yet, 

His  double  chin,  his  portly  size, 
And  who  that  knew  him  could  forget 

The  busy  wrinkles  round  his  eyes  ? 
The  slow  wise  smile  that,  round  about 

His  dusty  forehead  dryly  curl'd, 
Seem'd  half-within  and  half-without, 

And  full  of  dealings  with  the  world  ? 

In  yonder  chair  I  see  him  sit,        [cup  ; 

Three  fingers  round   the  old  silver 
1  see  his  gray  eyes  twinkle  yet 

At  his  own  jest — ^gray  eyeslitup 
With  summer  lightnings  of  a  soul 

So  full  of  summer  warmth,  so  glad, 
So  healthy,  sound,  and  clear  and  whole. 

His  memory  scarce  can  make  me  sad. 

Yet  fill  my  glass  :  give  me  one  kiss  : 

My  own  sweet  Alice,  we  must  die  ; 
There's  somewhat  in  this  world  amiss 

Shall  be  unriddled  by  and  by. 
There's  somewhat  flows  to  us  in  life, 

But  more  is  taken  quite  away. 
Pray,  Alice,  pray,  my  darling  wife, 

That  we  may  die  the  self-same  day. 

Have  I  not  found  a  happy  earth  .? 

I  least  should  breathe  a  thought  of 
pain. 
Would  God  renew  me  from  my  birth 

I'd  almost  live  my  life  again' 
So  sweet  it  seems  with  thee  to  walk, 

And  once  again  to  woo  thee  mine — 
It  seems  in  after-dinner  talk 

Across  the  walnuts  and  the  wine — 


To  be  the  long  and  listless  boy 

Late-left  an  orphan  of  the  squire, 
Where  this  old  mansion  mounted  high 

Looks  down  upon  the  village  spire  : 
For  even  here,  where  I  and  you 

Have  lived  and  loved  alone  so  long, 
Each  morn  my  sleep  was  broken  thro' 

By  some  wild  skylark's  matin  song. 

And  oft  I  heard  the  tender  dove 

In  firry  woodlands  making  moan ; 
But  ere  I  saw  your  eyes,  my  love, 

I  had  no  motion  of  my  own. 
For  scarce  my  life  with  fancy  play'd 

Before     I    dream'd     that     pleasant 
dream — 
Still  hither,thither  idly  sway'd 

Like  those  long  mosses  in  the  stream. 

Or  from  the  bridge  I  lean'd  to  hear 

The  milldam  rushing  down  with  noise, 
And  see  the  minnows  everywhere 

In  crystal  eddies  glance  and  poise. 
The  tall  flag-flowers  when  they  sprung 

Below  the  range  of  stepping-stones. 
Or   those   three   chestnuts   near,   that 
hung 

In  masses  thick  with  milky  cones. 

But,  Alice,  what  an  hour  was  that, 

When  after  roving  in  the  woods 
('Twas  April  then),  I  came  and  sat 

Below    the    chestnuts,    when    their 
buds 
Were  glistening  to  the  breezy  blue  ; 

And  on  the  slope,  an  absent  fool, 
I  cast  me  down,  nor  thought  of  you. 

But  angled  in  the  higher  pool. 

A  love-song  I  had  somewhere  read. 

An  echo  from  a  measured  strain, 
Beat  time  to  nothing  in  my  head 

From  some  odd  corner  of  the  brain. 
It  haunted  me,  the  morning  long, 

With  weary  sameness  in  the  rhymes, 
The  phantom  of  a  silent  song. 

That    went    and  came   a  thousand 
times. 

Then  leapt  a  trout.     In  lazy  mood 
I  watch'd  the  little  circles  die  ; 

They  past  into  the  level  flood. 

And  there  a  vision  caught  my  eye  ^ 


THE  MILLER'S  DA  UGHTER. 


2g 


The  reflex  of  a  beauteous  form, 
A  glowing  arm,  a  gleaming  neck. 

As  when  a  sunbeam  wavers  warm 
Within  the  dark  and  dimpled  beck. 

For  you  remember,  you  had  set. 

That  morningjOn  the  casement's  edge 
A  long  green  box  of  mignonette. 

And    you    were    leaning    frorri    the 
ledge ; 
And  when  I  raised  my  eyes,  above 

They    met    with    two    so    full    and 
bright — 
Such  eyes  !  I  swear  to  you,  my  love, 

That  these  have  never  lost  their  light. 

I  loved,  and  love  dispell'd  the  fear 

That- 1  should  die  an  early  death ; 
For  love  possess'd  the  atmosphere, 

And    fill'd    the    breast  with    purer 
breath. 
My  mother  thought,  What  ails  the  boy } 

For  I  was  alter'd,  and  began 
To  move  about  the  house  with  joy, 

And  with  the  certain  step  of  man. 
I  loved  the  brimming  wave  that  swam 

Thro'  quiet  meadows  round  the  mill, 
The  sleepy  pool  above  the  dam, 

The  pool  beneath  it  never  still, 
The  meal-sacks  on  the  whiten'd  floor. 

The    dark    round    of    the  dripping 
wheel, 
The  very  air  about  the  door 

Made  misty  with  the  floating  meal. 

And  oft  in  ramblings  on  the  wold. 

When  April  nights  began  to  blow, 
And  April's  crescent  glimmer'd  cold, 

I  saw  the  village  lights  below ; 
I  knew  your  taper  far  away, 

And  full  at  heart  of  trembling  hope, 
From  off  the  wold  I  came,  and  lay 

Upon  the  freshly-flower'd  slope. 

The  deep   brook  groan'd  beneath  the 
mill  :  [sits  !  " 

And  "  by  that  lamp,"  I  thought,  "  she 
The  white  chalk-quarry  from  the  hill 

Gleam'd  to  the  flying  moon  by  fits. 
"  O  that  ^were  beside  her  now  ! 

O  will  she  answer  if  I  call  "i 
O  would  she  give  me  vow  for  vow, 

Sv/eet  Alice,  if  I  told  her  all  ? " 


Sometimes  I  saw  you  sit  and  spin  ; 

And,  in  the  pauses  of  the  wind, 
Sometimes  I  heard  you  sing  within  ; 

Sometimes  your  shadow  cross'd  the 
blind. 
At  last  you  rose  and  moved  the  light, 

And  the  long  shadow  of  the  chair 
Flitted  across  into  the  night, 

And  all  the  casement  darken'd  there. 

But  when  at  last  I  dared  to  speak, 

The  lanes,  you  know,  were  white  with 

May,  [cheek 

Your  ripe   lips  moved   not,  but  your 

Flush'd  like  the  coming  of  the  day; 
And  so  it  was — half-sly,  half-shy. 

You  would,  and  would  not,  little  one ! 
Although  I  pleaded  tenderly, 

And  you  and  I  v/ere  all  alone. 

And  slowly  was  my  mother  brought 

To  yield  consent  to  my  desire  : 
She  wish'd  me  happy,  but  she  thought 

I  might  have  look'd  a  little  higher ; 
And  I  was  young — too  young  to  wed  : 

"  Yet  must  I  love  her  for  your  sake  ; 
Go  fetch  your  Alice  here,"  she  said : 

Her  eyelid  quiver'd  as  she  spake. 

And  down  I  went  to  fetch  my  bride : 

But,  Alice,  you  were  ill  at  ease  ; 
This  dress  and  that  by  turns  you  tried, 

Too    fearful    that  you    should  not 
please. 
I  loved  you  better  for  your  fears, 

I  knew  you  could  not  look  but  well ; 
And  dews,  that  would  have  fall'n  in 
tears, 

I  kiss'd  away  before  they  fell. 

I  watch'd  the  little  flutterings. 

The  doubt  my  mother  would  not  see  ,' 
She  spoke  at  large  of  many  things, 

And  at  the  last  she  spoke  of  me ; 
And  turning  look'd  upon  your  face. 

As  near  this  door  you  sat  apart. 
And  rose,  and,  with  a  silent  grace 

Approaching,  press'd  you   heart   ta 
heart. 
Ah,  well— -but  sing  the  foolish  song 

I  gave  you,  Alice,  on  the  day 
When,  arm  in  arm,  we  went  along, 

A  pensive  pair,  and  you  were  gay 


30 


FA  TIM  A. 


With  bridal  flowers — that  I  may  seem, 
As  in  the  nights  of  old  to  lie 

Beside  the  mill-wheel  in  the  stream, 
While  those   full  chestnuts  whisper 
by. 


It  is  the  miller's  daughter, 

And  she  is  grown  so  dear,  so  dear. 
That  I  would  be  the  jewel 

That  trembles  at  her  ear  : 
For  hid  in  ringlets  day  and  night, 
I'd  touch  her  neck  so  warm  and  white. 

And  I  would  be  the  girdle 
About  her  dainty,  dainty  waist, 

And  her  heart  would  beat  against  me, 
In  sorrow  and  in  rest : 

And  I  should  know  if  it  beat  right, 

I'd  clasp  it  found  so  close  and  tight. 

And  I  would  be  the  necklace. 
And  all  day  long  to  fall  and  rioe 

Upon  her  balmy  bosom, 

With  her  laughter  or  her  sighs. 

And  I  would  lie  so  light,  so  light, 

I  scarce  should  be  unclasp'd  at  night. 


A  trifle, sweet!  which  true  love  spells — 

True  love  interprets — right  alone. 
His  light  upon  the  letter  dwells, 

For  all  the  spirit  is  his  own. 
So,  if  I  waste  words  now,  in  truth. 

You  must  blame  Love.     His  early 
rage 
Had  force  to  make  me  rhyme  in  youth. 

And  makes  me  talk  too  much  in  age. 

And  now  those  vivid  hours  are  gone. 

Like  mine  own  life  to  me  thou  art, 
Where  Past  and  Present,  wound  in  one, 

Do  make  a  garland  for  the  heart : 
So  sing  that  other  song  I  made, 

Half-anger'd  with  my  happy  lot, 
The  day,  when  in  the  chestnut  shade 

I  found  the  blue  Forget-me-not. 


Love  that  hath  us  in  the  net, 
Can  he  pass,  and  we  forget .-' 
Many  suns  arise  and  set. 
Many  a  chance  the  years  beget. 
Love  the  gift  is  Love  the  debt. 
Even  so. 


Love  is  hurt  with  jar  and  fret. 
Love  is  made  a  vague  regret. 
Eyes  with  idle  tears  are  wet. 
Idle  habit  links  us  yet. 
What  is  love  ?  for  we  forget : 
Ah,  no!  no ! 


Look  thro'  mine  eyes  with  thine.    True 
wife,  [entwine ; 

Round    my   true   heart   thine    arms 
My  other  dearer  life  in  life, 

Look  thro'  my  very  soul  with  thine  ! 
Untouch'd  with  any  shade  of  years, 

May  those  kind  eyes  forever  dwell ! 
They  have  not  shed  a  many  tears, 

Dear   eyes,  since  first  I  knew  them 
well. 
Yet  tears  they  shed :  they  had   their 
part 

Of  sorrow  :  for  when  time  was  ripe, 
The  still  affection  of  the  heart 

Became  an  outward  breathing  type. 
That  into  stillness  past  again. 

And  left  a  want  unknown  before  ; 
Although  the  loss  that  brought  us  pain, 

That  loss  but  made  us  love  the  more. 

With  farther  lookings  on.     The  kiss, 

The  woven  arms,  seem  but  to  be 
Weak  symbols  of  the  settled  bliss. 

The  comfort,  I  have  found  in  thee  : 
But  that   God   bless  thee,  dear — who 
wrought 

Two  spirits  to  one  equal  mind — 
With  blessings  beyond  hope  or  thought, 

With  blessings  which  no  words  can 
find. 
Arise,  and  let  us  wander  forth, 

To  yon  old  mill  across  the  wolds ; 
For  look,  the  sunset,  south  and  nortK 

Winds  all  the  vale  in  rosy  folds, 
And  fires  your  narrow  casement  glass, 

Touching  the  sullen  pool  below  : 
On  the  chalk-hill  the  bearded  grass 

Is  dry  and  dewless.     Let  us  go. 


FATIMA. 

O   Love,   Love,   Love!     Ogwithering 

might ! 
O  sun,  that  from  thy  noonday  height 


(ENONE. 


3X 


Shudderest  when  I  strain  my  sight, 
Throbbing  thro'  all  thy  heat  and  light, 
Lo,  falling  from  my  constant  mind, 
Lo,  parch 'd  and  wither'd,  deaf  and 

blind, 
I  whirl  like  leaves  in  roaring  wind. 

Last  night  I  wasted  hateful  hours 
Below  the  city's  eastern  towers  : 
1  thirsted  for  the  brooks,  the  showers  : 
I  roll'd  among  the  tender  flowers : 
I   crush'd  them   on   my  breast,  my 

mouth  : 
I  look'd  athwart  the  burning  drouth 
Of  that  long  desert  to  the  south. 

Last  night,  when  some  one  spoke  his 
name,  [came 

From   my  swift  blood  that  went  and 
A  thousand  little  shafts  of  flame 
Were  shiver'd  in  my  narrow  frame. 

0  Love,  O  fire !  once  he  drew 
With  one  long  kiss  my  whole  soul 

thro' 
My  lips,  as  sunlight  drinketh  dew. 

Before  he  mounts  the  hill,  I  know 
He  cometh  quickly  :  from  below 
Sweet  gales,  as    from  deep  gardens, 

blow 
Before  him,  striking  on  my  brow. 
In  my  dry  brain  my  spirit  soon, 
Down -deepening    from     swoon    to 

swoon, 
Faints  like  a  dazzled  morning  moon. 

The  wind  sounds  like  a  silver  wire 
And  from  beyond  the  noon  a  fire 
Is  pour'd  upon  the  hills,  and  nigher 
The  skies  stoop  down  in  their  desire  ; 
And,  isled  in  sudden  seas  of  light. 
My  heart,  pierced  thro'   with  fierce 

delight. 
Bursts  into  blossom  in  his  sight. 

My  whole  soul  waiting  silently, 
All  naked  in  a  sultry  sky, 
Droops  blinded  with  his  shining  eye  : 
I  will  possess  him  or  will  die. 

1  will  grow  round  him  in  his  place. 
Grow,  live,  die  looking  on  his  face. 
Die,  dying  clasp'd  iii  his  embrace. 


CENONE. 

There  lies  a  vale  in  Ida,  lovelier 
Than  all  the  valleys  of  Ionian  hills. 
The   swimming  vapor   slopes  athwart 

the  glen, 
Puts  forth  an  arm,  and  creeps  from 

pine  to  pine, 
And  loiters,  slowly  drawn.     On  either 

hand 
The  lawns  and  meadow-ledges  midway 

down 
Hang  rich  in  flowers,  and  far  below 

them  roars 
The  long  brook  falling  thro*  the  clov'n 

ravine 
In  cataract  after  cataract  to  the  sea. 
Behind  the  valley  topmost  Gargarus 
Stands  up  and  takes  the  morning:  but 

in  front 
The  gorges,  opening  wide  apart,  reveal 
Troas  and  Ilion's  column'd  citadel, 
The  crown  of  Troas. 

Hither  came  at  noon 
Mournful  Ginone,  wandering  forlorn 
Of  Paris,  once   her  playmate  on  the 

hills. 
Her  cheek  had  lost  the  rose,  and  round 

her  neck 
Floated  her  hair  or  seem'd  to  float  in 

rest.  [vine. 

She,  leaning  on  a  fragment  twined  with 
Sang  to  the  stillness,  till  tiie  mountain- 
shade 
Sloped  downward  to  her  seat  from  the 

upper  cliff. 


"  O  mother  Ida,  many-fountain'd  Ida^  / 
Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die.  / 
For  now  the^noonday  quiet  holds  the 

hill : 
The  grasshopper  is  silent  in  the  grass : 
The   lizardTwitTi  his  shadow  on  the 

stone. 
Rests  like   a  shadow,  and  the  cicala 

sleeps. 
The  purple  flowers  droop :  the  golden 

bee 
Is  lily-cradled  :  I  alone  awake. 
My  eyes  are  full  of  tears  my  heart  of 

love, 


32 


CEATOA'F.. 


My  heart  is  breaking,  and  my  eyes  are 

dim, 
And  I  am  all  aweary  of  my  life. 

*'  O  mother  Ida,  many-fountain'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
Hear  me  O  Earth,  hear  me  O  Hills,  O 

Caves 
That  house  the  cold  crown'd  snake  !  O 

mountain  brooks, 
I  am  the  daughter  of  a  River-God, 
Hear  me,  for  I  will   speak,  and   build 

up  all 
My  sorrow  with  my  song,   as  yonder 

walls 
Rose  slowly  to  a  music  slowly  breathed, 
A  cloud  that  gather'd  shape  :  for  itmay+A 

be 
That,  while  I  speak  of  it,  a  little  while 
My  heart  may  wander  from  its  deeper 

woe. 


"  O  mother  Ida,  many  fountain'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
I  waited  underneath  the  dawning  hills, 
Aloft  the  mountain  lawn  was  dewy-dark. 
And    dewy-dark    aloft    the    mountain 

pine : 
Beautiful  Paris,  evil-hearted  Paris, 
Leading  a  jet-black  goat  white-horn'd, 

white-hooved. 
Came  up  from  reedy  Simois  all  alone. 

'•  O  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 

Far-off  the  torrent  call'd  me  from  the 
cleft : 

Far  up  the  solitary  morning  smote 

The  streaks  of  virgin  snow.  With 
down-dropt  eyes 

I  sat  alone  :  white-breasted  like  a  star 

Fronting  the  dawn  he  moved ;  a  leop- 
ard skin 

Droop'd  from  his  shoulder,  but  his 
sunny  hair 

Cluster'd  about  his  temples  like  a 
God's  ; 

And  his  cheek  brighten'd  as  the  foam- 
bow  brightens 

When  the  wind  blows  the  foam,  and 
all  my  heart 

When  forth  to  embrace  him  coming  ere 
he  came. 


*'  Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  dici 
He  smiled,  and  opening  out  his  milk- 
white  palm 
Disclosed  a  fruit  of   pure    Hesperian 

gold. 
That  smelt   ambrosially,  and  while  I 

look'd 
And  listen'd,  the  full-flowing  river  of 

speech 
Came  down  upon  my  heart. 

"  '  My  own  CEnone, 
Beautiful-brow'd  CEnone,  my  own  soul, 
Behold  this  fruit,  whose  gleaming  rind 

engrav'n 
"  For  the  most  fair,"  would  seem  to 

award  it  thine, 
s  lovelier  than  whatever  ()i;ead  haunt 
The  knolls  of  Ida,  loveliest  m  all  grace 
Of  movement,  and  the  charm  of  married 

brows.' 


"  Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 

He  prest  the  blossom  of  his  lips  to 
mine. 

And  added,  *  This  was  cast  upon  the 
board. 

When  all  the  full-faced  presence  of  the 
Gods 

Ranged  in  the  halls  of  Peleus  ;  where- 
upon 

Rose  feud,  with  question  unto  whom 
'twere  due  : 

But  light-foot  Iris  brought  it  yester-eve, 

Delivering  that  to  me,  by  common 
voice 

Elected  umpire.     Here  comes  to-day, 

Pallas  and  Aphrodite,  claiming  each 

This  meed  of  fairest  Thou,  within  the 
cave 

Behind  yon  whispering  tuft  of  oldest 
pine, 

Mayst  well  behold  them  unbeheld»  un- 
heard 

Hear  all,  and  see  thy  Paris  judge  of 
Gods.' 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
It  was  the  deep  midnoon  :  one  silvery 

cloud 
Had  lost  his  way  between  the  piny  sides 
Of  this  long  glen.     Then  to  the  'bowel 

they  came, 


Naked    they    came    to    that    smooth- 
swarded  bower, 
And  at  their  feet  the  crocus  brake  like 

fire, 
Violet,  amaracus,  and  asphodel, 
Lotos  ancflilies :   and  a  wind  arose, 
A.nd  overhead  the  wandering  ivy  and 

vine, 
This  way  and  that,inmanyawild  festoon 
Ran  riot,garlanding  the  gnarled  boughs 
With  bunch  and  berry  and  flower  thro' 
and  thro'. 

*'  O  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
On  the  tree-tops  a  crested  peacock  lit. 
And   o'er  him  fiow'd  a  golden  cloud, 

and  lean'd 
Upon    him,  slowly  dropping   fragrant 

dew. 
Then  first  I  heard  the  voice  of  her,  to 

whom 
Coming  thro'  Heaven,  like  a  light  that 

grows 
Larger  and  clearer,  with  one  mind  the 

Gods 
Rise  up  for  reverence.     She  to  Paris 

made 
Proffer  of  royal  power,  ample  rule 
Unquestion'd,  overthrowing  revenue 
Wherewith   to  embellish  state,  'from 

many  a  vale 
And  river-sunder'd  champaign  clothed 

with  corn. 
Or  labor'd  mines  undrainable  of  ore. 
Honof,'"slie  said, •and' homage,  taxand 

'   toll, 
From  many  an  inland  town  and  haven 

large, 
Mast-throng'd  beneath  her  shadowing 

citadel 
In    glassy    bays    among     her     tallest 

towers.' 

"  O  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
Still  she  spake  on  and  still  she  spake 

of  power, 
'Which  in  all  actionjsjhe  end  of  all^; 
Power  fitted  ^gltEe,  season  ;  wisdom 

bred 
And    throned    of    wisdom — from     all 

neighbor  crowns 
Alliance  and  allegiance,  till  thy  hand 


Fail  from  the  sceptre-staff.    Such  boon 

from  me. 
From  me,  Heaven's    Queen,  Paris,  to 

thee  king-born, 
A  shepherd    all  thy  life  but  yet   king- 
born, 
Should    come    most   welcome,  seeing 

men,  in  power 
Only,  are  likest  gods,who  have  attaiu'd 
Rest  in  a  happy  place  and  quiet  seats 
Above  the  thunder,  with  undying  bliss 
In  knowledge  of  their  own  supremacy.' 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,hearkenere  I  die. 
She  ceased,  and  Paris  held  the  costly 

fruit 
Out    at     arm's-length,   so    much    the 

thought  of  power 
Flatter'd   his  siDirit  ;  but  Pallas  where 

she  stood  ^ 

Somewhat  apart,  her  clear  and  bared 

limbs 
O'erthwarted  with   the   brazen-headed 

spear 
Upon  her  pearly  shoulder  leaning  cold, 
The  while,  above,  her  full  and  earnest 

eye 
Over  her   snow-cold  breast  and  angry 

cheek 
Kept   watch,    waitJng  decision,   made 

reply. 

"  '  Self  -  reverence,   self-knowledge, 

self-control, 
These   three   alone  lead  life  to   sover- 
eign power, 
Yet  not  for  power  (power  of  herself 
Would   come  uncall'd  for),  butjo^ Jjye 

by  law, 
Acting  the  law  we  live  by  without  fear ; 
And,  because  right  is  right,  to  follow. 

right 
Were  wisdom    m    the  scorn  ot  cone-:e- 

quence.' 
"Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
Again  she  said :    '  I  woo  thee  not  with 

gifts. 
Sequel  of  guerdon  could  not  alter  me 
To  fairer.     Judge  thou  me  by  what  I 

am, 
So  shalt  thou  find  me  fairest. 


54 


CE^rONE. 


Yet,  indeed, 
If  gazing  on  divinity  disrobed 
Thy  mortal  eyes  are  frail  to  judge  of 
fair, 


Half-whisper'd  in  his  ear,  '  I  promise 

thee 
The  fairest   and  most   loving  wife  in 

Greece.' 
Unbiass'd  by  self-profit,  oh !  rest  thee^he  spoke  and  laugh'd :  I  shut  my  sight 


That  I  should  love  thee  well  and  cleave 

to  thee, 
So  that  my  vigor,  wedded  to  thy  blood, 
Shall   strike   within   thy  pulse,  like   a 

God's, 
To  push  thee   forward  thro'  a  life   of 

shocks. 
Dangers,  and  deeds,  until   endurarice 

grow 
Sinew'd  with  action,  and  the  full-grown 

will. 
Circled  thro'  all  experiences,  pure  law, 
Qommeasure  perfect  freedom.' 

"  Here  she  ceased, 
And   Paris  ponder'd,  and   I  cried,  '  O 

Paris, 
Give  it  to  Pallas  ! '  but  he  heard  me 

not. 
Or  hearing  would  not  hear  me»  woe  is 

me  \ 

*'0  mother  Ida,  many-fountain'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
^Idalian  Aphrodite  beautiful, 
Fresh  as  the   foam,  new-bathed  in  Pa- 

phian  wells, 
With    rosy  slender  fingers   backward 

drew 
From  her  warm  brows  and  bosom  her 

deep  hair 
Ambrosial,   golden    round    her    lucid 

throat 
And  shoulder  :    from  the  violets  her 

light  foot 
Shone  rosy  white,  and  o'er  her  rounded 

form 
Between    the    shadows  of    the    vine 

bunches 
Floated  the  glowing  sunlights,  as  she 

moved. 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
She  with  a  subtle  smile  in  her  mild  eyes, 
The   herald  of   her  triumph,  drawing 
nigh 


for  fear : 
But  when  I  look'd,  Paris  had  raised  his 

arm. 
And  I  beheld  great  IJcre's  angry  eyes, 
As  she  withdrew  into  the  golden  cloud, 
And  I  was  left  alone  within  the  bower  ; 
And  from  that  time  to  this  I  am  alonCj 
And  I  shall  be  alone  until  I  die. 

"  Yet,  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
Fairest — why  fairest  wife  ?   am  I  not 

fair? 
My  love  hath  told  me  so  a  thousand 

times. 
Methinks  I  must  be  fair,  for  yesterday. 
When  I  passed  by,  a  wild  and  wanton 

Eyed  like  the  evening  star,  with  play- 
ful tail 

Crouch'd  fawning  in  the  weed.  Most 
loving  is  she  "i 

Ah  me,  my  mountain  shepherd,  that 
my  arms 

Were  wound  about  thee,  and  my  hot 
lips  prest 

Close,  close  to  thine  in  that  quick-fall- 
ing dew 

Of  fruitful  kisses,  thick  as  Autumn 
rains 

Flash  in  the  pools  of  whirling  Simois. 

"  O  mother,  hear  mc  yet  before  I  die. 

They  came,  they  cut  away  m.y  tallest 
pines. 

My  dark  tall  pines,  that  plumed  the 
craggy  ledge 

High  over  the  blue  gorge,  and  all  be^ 
tween 

The  snowy  peak  and  snow-white  cat- 
aract 

Foster'd  the  callow  eaglet — from  be- 
neath 

Whose  thick  mysterious  bows  in  the 
dark  morn 

The  panther's  roar  came  muffled,  while 
T  sat 

Low  in  the  valley.     Never,  never  more 


CENONE. 


35 


Shall  lone  CEnone  seo  the  morning  mist 

Sweep  thro'  them ;  never  see  them 
overlaid 

"With  narrow  moon-lit  slips  of  silver 
cloud, 

Between  the  loud  stream  and  the  trem- 
bling stars. 

"  O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before   I 

die. 
I  wish  that  somewhere  in  the  ruin'd 

folds, 
Among  the  fragments   tumbled  from 

the  glens, 
Or  the  dry  thickets,  I  could  meet  with 

her, 
The  Abominable,  that  uninvited  came 
Into  the  fair  Peleian  banquet-hall, 
And  cast  the  golden   fruit  upon  the 

board. 
And  bred  this  change ;  that  I  might 

speak  my  mind. 
And  tell  her  to  her  face  how  much  I 

hate 
Her  presence,  hated  both  of  Gods  and 

men. 

"O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I 

die. 
Hath  he  not  sworn  his  love  a  thousand 

times; 
In  this  green  valley,  under  this  green 

hill, 
Ev'n  on  this  hand,  and  sitting  on  this 

stone  "i 
Seal'd  it  with  kisses  ?  water'd  it  with 

tears } 
O  happy    tears,  and  how  unlike    to 

these  ! 
O  happy  Heaven,  how  canst  thou  see 

my  face } 
O  happy  earth,  how  canst   thou  bear 

my  weight  "i 

0  death,  death,  death,  thou  ever-float- 

ing cloud, 
There   are   enough   unhappy   on   this 

earth, 
Pass  by  the  happy  souls,  that  love  to 

live: 

1  pray  thee,  pass  before  my  light  of 

life 


And  shadow  all  my  soul,  that   I  may 

die. 
Thou   weighest    heavy   on   the    heart 

within. 
Weigh  heavy  on  my  eyelids :  let  me  die. 

"O   mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I 

die 
I  will  not  die  alone,  for  fiery  thoughts 
Do  shape  themselves  within  me,  more 

and  more, 
Whereof  I  catch  the  issue,  as  I  hear 
Dead  sounds  at  night  come  from  the 

inmost  hills. 
Like  footsteps  upon  wool.      I  dimly 

see 
My   far-ofT    dorbtful    purpose,   as    a 

mother 

Conjectures  of  the  features  of  her  child 
Ere  it  is  born:  her  child! — a  shudder 

comes 
Across  me:  never  child  be  born  of  me, 
Unblest,  to  vex  me  with  his  father's 

evesl 


"O  mother,  hear  me   yet  before  I 

die. 
Hear  me,  O  earth.    I  will  not  die  alone. 
Lest  their  shrill  happy  laughter  come 

to  me 
Walking  the  cold  and  starless  road  of 

Death 
Uncomforted,  leaving  my  ancient  love 
With  the  Greek  woman.    I  will  rise 

and  go 
Down  into  Troy,  and  ere  the  stars  come 

forth 
Talk  with  the  wild  Cassandra,  for  she 

says 
A  fire  dances  before  her,  and  a  sound 
Rings  ever  in  her  ears  of  armed  men. 
What  this  may  be  I  know  not,  but  I 

know 
That,  wheresoe'er  I  am  by  night  and 

day, 
All  earth  and  air  seem  only  burning 

fire. 


3G 


TO 


THE   SISTERS. 

We  were  two  daughters  of  one  race  : 
She  was  the  fairest  in  the  face  : 

The  wind  is  blowing  in  turret  and 
tree. 
They  were  together,  and  she  fell  ; 
Therefore  revenge  became  me  well 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see ! 

She  died  r  she  went  to  burning  flame : 
She    mix'd    her    ancient    blood   with 
shame. 
The  wind  is  howling  in  turret  and 
tree. 
Whole  weeks  and  months,  and  early 

and  late, 
To  win  his  love  I  lay  in  wait : 
O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  1 


I  made  a  feast ;  I  bade  him  come ; 
I  won  his  love,  I  brought  him  home. 

The  wind  is  roaring  in  turret  and 
tree. 
And  after  supper,  on  a  bed, 
Upon  my  lap  he  laid  his  head: 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see ! 


I  kiss'd  his  eyelids  into  rest  : 
His  ruddy  cheek  upon  my  breast. 

The  wind    is  raging  in  turret  and 
tree. 
I  hated  him  with  the  hate  of  hell. 
But  I  loved  his  beauty  passing  well. 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see ! 


I  rose  up  in  the  silent  night: 
I  made  my  dagger  sharp  and  bright, 
The  wind  is  raving  in  turret  and 
tree. 
As  half-asleep  his  breath  he  drew. 
Three  times  I  stabb'd  him  thro'  and 
thro'. 
O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 


I  curl'd  and  comb'd  his  comely  head, 
He    look'd  so    grand   when    he  was 
dead. 


The  wind  is  blowing  in  turret  and 
tree. 
I  wrapt  his  body  in  the  sheet, 
And  laid  him  at  his  mother's  feet 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  I 


TO 


WITH  THE  FOLLOWING   POEM. 

I  SEND  you  here  a  sort  of  allegory, 

(For  you  will  understand  it)  of  a 
soul, 

A  sinful  soul  possess'd  of  many  gifts, 

A  spacious  garden  full  of  flowering 
weeds, 

A  glorious  Devil,  large  in  heart  and 
brain. 

That  did  love  Beauty,  only  (Beauty 
seen 

In  all  varieties  of  mould  and  mind,) 

And  Knowledge  for  its  beautv ;  or  if 
Good, 

Good  only  for  its  beauty,  seeing  not 

That  Beauty,  Good,  and  Knowledge 
are  three  sisters 

That  dote  upon  each  other,  friends  to 
man. 

Living  together  under  the  same  roof, 

And  never  can  be  sunder'd  without 
tears, 

And  he  that  shuts  Love  out,  in  turn 
shall  be 

Shut  out  from  Love,  and  on  her  thresh- 
old lie 

Howling  in  outer  darkness.  Not  for 
this 

Was  common  clay  ta'en  from  the  com- 
mon earth, 

Moulded  by  God,  and  temper'd  with 
the  tears 

Of  angels  to  the  perfect  shape  of  man- 


THE  PALACE  OF  ART. 


37 


THE  PALACE  OF  ART. 

I   BUILT   my    soul   a  lordly  pleasure- 
house, 
Wherein  at  ease  for  aye  to  dwell. 
I  said,  "  O    Soul,    make    merry    and 
carouse, 
Dear  soul,  for  all  is  well." 

A    huge    crag -platform,    smooth     as 

burnish'd  brass,  [bright 

I    chose.      The     ranged     ramparts 

From  level  meadow-bases  of  deep  grass 

Suddenly  scaled  the  light. 

Thereon  I  built  it  firm.     Of  ledge  or 
shelf 
The  rock  rose  clear,  or  winding  stair. 
My  soul  would  live  alone  unto  herself 
In  her  high  palace  there. 

And  "  while  the  world  runs  round  and 
round,"  I  said, 
*'  Reign  thou  apart,  a  quiet  king, 
Still  as,  while  Saturn  whirls,  his  stead- 
fast shade 
Sleeps  on  his  luminous  ring.'.' 

To  which  my  soul  made  answer  readily  : 

"  Trust  me,  in  bliss  I  shall  abide 
In  this  great  mansion,  that  is  built  for 
me, 
So  royal-rich  and  wide." 
«  »  »  »  « 

Ik  %  %  *  * 

Four  courts  I   made,  East,  West  and 
South  and  North, 
In  each  a  squared  lawn,  wherefrom 
The  golden  gorge  of  dragons  spouted 
forth 
A  flood  of  fountain-foam. 

And  round  the  cool  green  courts  there 
ran  a  row 
Of  cloisters,  branch'd  like  mighty 
woods, 
Echoing  all  night  to  that  sonorous  flow 
Of  spouted  fountain-floods. 

And  round  the  roofs  a  gilded  gallery 

That  lent  broad  verge  to  distant  lands, 
Far  as  the  wild  swan  wings,  lo  where 
the  sky 
Dipi  down  to  sea  and  sands. 


From  those  four  jets  four  currents  in 

one  swell  [low 

Across    the  mountain    stream'd  be- 
In  misty  folds,  that  floating  as  they  fell 
Lit  up  a  torrent-bow. 

And  high  on  every  peak  a  statue  seem'd 

To  hang  on  tiptoe,  tossing  up 
A  cloud  of  incense  of  all  odor  steam'd 
From  out  a  golden  cup. 

So  that  she  thought,  "  And  who  shall 
gaze  upon 
My  palace  with  unblinded  eyes. 
While  this  great  bow  will  waver  in  the 
sun. 
And  that  sweet  incense  rise  ?  " 

For  that  sweet  incense  rose  and  never 
fail'd,  [higher, 

And,   while   day  sank    or   mounted 
The  light  aerial  gallery,  golden  rail'd, 
Burnt  like  a  fringe  of  fire. 

Likewise  the  deep-set  windows,  stain'd 
and  traced,  [fires 

Would   seem  slow-flaming   crimson 
From  shadow'd  grots  of  arches  inter- 
laced, 
And  tipt  with  frost-like  spires. 


Full  of  long-sounding  corridors  it  was. 

That  over-vaulted  grateful  gloom. 
Thro'  which  the  livelong  day  my  soul 
did  pass. 
Well-pleased,  from  room  to  room. 

Full   of  great   rooms    and   small    the 

palace  stood, 

All  various,  each  a  perfect  whole 

From  living  Nature,  fit  for  every  mood 

And  change  of  my  still  soul. 

For  some  were  hung  with  arras  green 
and  blue. 
Showing  a  gaudy  summer-morn, 
Where  with   puff'd   cheek  the  belted 
hunter  blew 
His  wreathed  bugle  horn. 


38 


THE  PALACE  OF  ART. 


One  seem'd  all  dark  and  red, — a  tract 
of  sand, 
And  some  one  pacing  there  alone, 
Who  paced  forever  in  a  glimmering 
land, 
Lit  with  a  low  large  moon. 

One  show'd  an  iron   coast  and  angry 
waves.  [fall 

You  seem'd  to  hear  them  climb  and 
And  roar  rock-thwarted  under  bellow- 
ing caves. 
Beneath  the  windy  wall. 

And  one,  a  fC'U-ted  river  winding  slow 

By  herds,  upon  an  endless  plain, 
The  ragged  rims  of  thunder  brooding 
low, 
With  shadow-streaks  of  rain. 

And  one,  the  reapers  at   their  sultry 

toil,  [Behind 

In  front   they   bound   the   sheaves. 

Were  realms  of  upland,  prodigal  in  oil, 

And  hoary  to  the  wind. 

And  one,  a  foreground  black  with  stones 
and  slags. 
Beyond,  a  line  of  heights,  and  higher 
All  barr'd  with  long  white  cloud  the 
scornful  crags. 
And  highest,  snow  and  fire. 

And   one,   an    English    home,  —  gray 
twilight  pour'd 
On  dewy  pastures,  dewy  trees. 
Softer  than  sleep, — all  things   in  order 
stored, 
A  haunt  of  ancient  Peace. 

Nor  these  alone,  but  every  landscape 
fair. 
As  fit  for  every  mood  of  mind. 
Or  gay,  or  grave,  or  sweet,  or  stern, 
was  there. 
Not  less  than  truth  design'd. 

***** 
***** 

Or  the  maid-mother  by  a  crucifix. 
In  tracts  of  pasture  sunny-warm, 
Beneath  branch-work  of  costly  sardonyx 
Sat  smiling,  babe  in  ariu. 


Or  in  a  clear-wall'd  city  on  the  sea. 
Near  gilded  organ-pipes,  her  hair 
Wound   with    white    roses,   slept  St. 
Cecily  ; 
An  angel  looked  at  her. 

Or  thronging  all  one  porch  of  Paradise, 

A  group  of  Houris  bow'd  to  see 
The  dying  Islamite,  with  hands  aiicl 
eyes 
That  said,  We  wait  for  thee. 

Or  mythic  Uther's  deeply-wounded  son 

In  some  fair  space  of  sloping  greens 
Lay,  dozing  in  the  vale  of  Avalon, 
And  watch'd  by  weeping  queens. 

Or  hollowing  one  hand  against  his  ear, 

To  list  a  footfall,  ere  he  saw 
The  wood-nymph,  stay'd  the  Ausonian 
king  to  hear 
Of  wisdom  and  of  law. 

Or  over  hills  with  peaky  tops  engrail'd, 
And  many  a  tract  of  palm  and  rice, 
The  throne  of   Indian    Cama    slowly 
sail'd 
A  summer  fann'd  with  spice. 

Or  sweet  Europa's  mantle  blew  un- 

clasp'd,  [borne : 

From   off    her   shoulder    backward 

From  one  hand  droop'd  a  crocus :  ore 

hand  grasp'd 

The  mild  bull's  golden  horn. 

Or  else  flushed  Ganymede,  his  rosy 
thigh 
Half-buried  in  the  Eagle's  down. 
Sole  as  a  flying  star  shot  thro'  the  sky 
Above  the  pillar'd  town. 

Nor  these  alone  :  but  every  legend  fair 
Which  the  supreme  Caucasian  mind 
Carved  out  of  Nature  for  itself,  was 
there, 
Not  less  than  life,  design'd. 


THE  PALACE  OF  ART. 


39 


Then  in  the  towers  I  placed  great  bells 

that  swung,  [sound  ; 

Moved   of    themselves,   with   silver 

And  with  choice  paintings  of  wise  men 

I  hung 

The  royal  dais  round. 

For  there  was  Milton  like  a  seraph 

strong,  [mild ; 

Beside  him  Shakespeare  bland  and 

And     there    the     world-worn    Dante 

grasp'd  his  song. 

And  somewhat  grimly  smiled. 

And  there  the  Ionian  father  of  the  rest ; 
A  million  wrinkles  carved  his  skin  ; 
A   hundred  winters  snow'd  upon  his 
breast, 
From  cheek  and  throat  and  chin. 

Above,  the  fair  hall-ceiling  stately-set 

Many  an  arch  high  up  did  lift. 
And  angels  rising  and  descending  met 
With  interchange  of  gift. 

Below  was  all  mosaic  choicely  plann'd 

With  cycles  of  the  human  tale 
Of  this  wide  world,  the  times  of  every 
land 
So  wrought,  they  will  not  fail. 

The  people  here,  a  beast  of  burden  slow, 
Toil'd  onward,  prick'd  with  goads 
and  stings ; 
Here  play'd  a  tiger,  rolling  to  and  fro 
The  lieads  and  crowns  of  kings ; 

Here  rose  an  athlete,  strong  to  break 
or  bind 
All  force  in  bonds  that  might  endure, 
And  here  once  more  like  some  sick 
man  declin'd, 
And  trusted  any  cure. 

But   over  these   she  trod:  and  those 
great  bells 
Began    to    chime.      She    took    her 
throne : 
She  sat  betwixt  the  shining  Oriels, 
To  sing  her  songs  alone. 


And  thro'  the  topmost  Oriels'  color' d 

flame 
Two  godlike  faces  gazed  below ; 
Plato  the  wise,  and  large-brow' d  Ver* 

ulam, 
^_j^  The  first  of  those  who  know. 

And  all  those   names,   that  in  their 
motion  were 
Full -welling    fountain-heads    of 
change,  [fair 

Betwixt  the  slender  shafts  were  blazon'd 
In  diverse  raiment  strange  : 

Thro'  which  the  lights,  rose,  amber, 
emerald,  blue, 
Flush'd  in  her  temples  and  her  eyes, 
And  from  her  lips,  as  morn  from  Mem- 
non,  drew 
Rivers  of  melodies. 

No  nightingale  delighteth  to  prolong 

Her  low  preamble  all  alone. 
More  than  my  soul  to  hear  her  echo'd 
song 
Throb  thro'  the  ribbed  stone  ; 

Singing  and  murmuring  in  her  feastful 
mirth, 
Joying  to  feel  herself  alive, 
Lord  over  Nature,  Lord  of  the  visible 
earth, 
Lord  of  the  senses  five ; 

Communing  with  herself :  "  All  these 
are  mine, 
And  let  the  world  have  peace  or  wars 
'Tis  one  to  me."     She — when  young 
night  divine 
Crown'd  dying  day  with  stars, 

Making  sweet   close  of  his  delicious 
toils — 
Lit  light  in  wreaths  and  anadems. 
And  pure  quintessences  of  precious  oils 
In  hollow' d  moons  of  gems 

To  mimic  heaven  ;  and  clapt  her  hands 
and  cried, 
"  I  marvel  if  my  still  delight 
In  this  great  house  so  royal-rich,  and 
wide. 
Be  flatter' d  to  the  height. 


40 


THE  PALACE  OF  ART. 


"  O  all  things  fair  to  sate  my  various 
eyes  !  [well ! 

0  shapes  and  hues  that  please  me 

0  silent  faces  of  the  Great  and  Wise, 

My  Gods,  with  whom  I  dwell ! 

'•  ()  God-like  isolation  which  art  mine, 

1  can  but  count  thee  perfect  gain, 
What    time    I    watch   the   darkening 

droves  of  swine 
That  range  on  yonder  plain. 

*'  In  filthy  sloughs  they  roll  a  prurient 
skin, 
They  graze  and  wallow,  breed  and 
sleep ; 
And  oft  some  brainless  devil  enters  in, 
And  drives  them  to  the  deep." 

Then  of  the  moral  instinct  would  she 
prate, 
And  of  the  rising  from  the  dead. 
As  hers  by  right  of  full-accomplish' d 
Fate; 
And  at  the  last  she  said : 

"  I  take  possession  of  man's  mind  and 
deed, 
I  care  not  what  the  sects  may  brawl. 

1  sit  as  God  holding  no  form  of  creed, 

But  contemplating  all." 


P  ull  oft  the  riddle  of  the  painful  earth 

Flash'd  thro'  her  as  she  sat  alone. 
Yet  not  the  less  held  she  her  solemn 
mirth. 
And  intellectual  throne. 

And  so  she  throve  and  prosper' d:  so 
three  years 
She  prosper' d  :  on  the  fourth  she  fell, 
Like  Herod,  when  the  shout  was  in  his 
ears, 
Struck  thro'  with  pangs  of  hell. 

Lest  she  should  fail  and  perish  utterly, 

God,  before  whom  ever  lie  bare 
The  abysmal  deeps  of  Personality, 
Plagued  her  with  sore  despair. 


When  she  would  think,  where'er  she 

turnM  her  sight, 
.    The  airy  hand  confusion  wrought, 
Wrote    "Mene,    mene,"   and   divided 

quite 
The  kingdom  of  her  thought. 

Deep  dread  and  loathing  of  her  solitude 

Fell  on  her,  from  which  mood  was 

born  [mood 

Scorn  of  herself  ;  again,  from  out  that 

Laughter  at  her  self-scorn. 

"  What !    is    not     this     my    place     of 
strength,"  she  said, 
"  My  spacious  mansion  built  for  me, 
Whereof  the  strong  foundation-stones 
were  laid 
Since  my  first  memory  ?  " 

But  in  dark  corners  of  her  palace  stood 

Uncertain  shapes;  and  unawares 
On  white-eyed  phantasms  weeping  tears 
of  blood, 
And  horrible  nightmares, 

And   hollow  shades   enclosing   hearts 
of  flame, 
And,  with  dim  fretted  foreheads  all, 
On  corpses  three-months  old  at  noon 
she  came. 
That  stood  against  the  wall. 

A  spot  of  dull  stagnation,  without  light 
Or  power  of  movement,  seem'd  my 
soul, 
'Mid  onward-sloping  motions  infinite 
Making  for  one  sure  goal. 

A  still  salt  pool,  lock'd  in  with  bars  of 
sand  ; 
Left  on  the  shore  ;  that  hears  all  night 
The  plunging  seas  draw  backward  from 
the  land 
Their  moon-led  waters  white. 

A  star  that  with  the  choral  starry  dance 
Join'd  not,  but  stood,  and  standing 
saw 
The  hollow  orb  of  moving  Circumstance 
RoU'd  round  by  one  lix'd  law. 


J_ 


LADY  CLARA   VERB  DE  VERE. 


41 


Back  on  herself  her  serpent  pride  had 

curl'd.  [hall, 

"  No  voice,"  she  shriek'd  in  that  lone 

**  No  voice  breaks  thro'  the  stillness  of 

this  world : 

One  deep,  deep  silence  all  1 " 

Sb.c,  mouldering  with  the  dull  earth's 
mouldering  sod, 
Inwrapt  tenfold  in  slothful  shame, 
Lay  there  exiled  from  eternal  God, 
Lost  to  her  place  and  name  ; 

And  death  and  life  she  hated  equally. 

And  nothing  saw,  for  her  despair. 
But  dreadful  time,  dreadful  eternity, 
No  comfort  anywhere  ; 

Remaining  utterly  confused  with  fears. 

And  ever  worse  with  growing  time, 
And  ever  unrelieved  by  dismal  tears. 
And  all  alone  in  crime  : 

Shut  up  as  in  a  crumbling  tomb,  girt 
round 
"With  blackness  as  a  solid  wall, 
Far  off  she  seem'd  to  hear  the  dully 
sound 
Of  human  footsteps  fall. 

As  in  strange  lands  a  traveller  walking 
slow, 
In  doubt  and  great  perplexity, 
A  little  before  moon-rise  hears  the  low 
Moan  of  an  unknown  sea  ; 

And  knows  not  if  it  be  thunder  or  a 

sound  [cry 

Of  rocks  thrown  down,  or  one  deep 

Of  great  wild  beasts;  then  thinketh, 

"  I  have  found 

A  new  land,  but  I  die." 

She  howl'd  aloud,  '*  I  am  on  fire  within. 

There  comes  no  murmur  of  reply. 
What  is  it  that  will  take  away  my  sin, 
And  save  me  lest  I  die .'' " 

So  when  four  years  were  wholly  finished, 

She  threw  her  royal  robes  away, 
**  Make  me  a  cottage  in  the  vale,"  she 
said, 
"  Where  I  may  mourn  and  pray. 


"  Yet  pull  not  down  my  palace  towers, 
that  are 
So  lightly,  beautifully  buiit : 
Perchance  I  may  return   with  others 
there 
When  I  have  purged  my  guilt." 


LADY  CLARA  VERE  DE  VERE. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Of  me  you  shall  not  win  renown : 
You  thought  to  break  a  country  heart 

For  pastime,  ere  you  went  to  town. 
At  me  you  smiled,  but  unbeguiled 

I  saw  the  snare,  and  I  retired  : 
The  daughter  of  a  hundred  Earls, 

You  are  not  one  to  be  desired. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

I  know  you  proud  to  bear  your 
name. 
Your  pride  is  yet  no  mate  for  mine, 

Too   proud  to   care  from  whence  I 
came. 
Nor  would  I  break  for  your  sweet  sake 

A  heart  that  dotes  on  truer  charms. 
A  simple  maiden  in  her  flower 

Is  worth  a  hundred  coats-of-arms. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Some  meeker  pupil  you  must  find, 
For  were  you  queen  of  all  that  is, 

I  could  not  stoop  to  such  a  mind. 
You  sought  to  prove  how  I  could  love, 

And  my  disdain  is  my  reply. 
The  lion  on  your  old  stone  gates 

Is  not  more  cold  to  you  than  I. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

You  put  strange    memories  in  my 

head.  [blown 

Not  thrice  your  branching  limes  have 

Since  I  beheld  young  Laurence  dead. 
Oh  your  sweet  eyes,  your  low  replies  : 

A  great  enchantress  you  may  be  ; 
But  there  was  that  across  his  throat 

Which  you  had  hardly  cared  to  see. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

When  thus  he  met  his  mother's  view. 
She  had  the  passions  of  her  kind, 

She  spake  some  certain  truths  of  you» 


42 


THE  MAY  queen: 


Indeed  I  heard  one  bitter  word 
That  scarce  is  fit  for  you  to  hear  ; 

Her  manners  had  not  that  repose 
Which  stamps  the  caste  of  Vere  de 
Vere. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

There  stands  a  spectre  in  your  hall : 
The  guilt  of  blood  is  at  your  door  : 

You  changed  a  wholesome  heart  to 
gall, 
You  held  your  course  without  remorse. 

To  make  him  trust  his  modest  worth, 
And,  last,  you  fix'd  a  vacant  stare. 

And  slew  him  with  your  noble  birth. 

Trust  me,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

From   yon   blue   heavens   above   us 
bent 

The  grand  old  gardener  and  his  wife 
Smile  at  the  claims  of  long  descent. 

Howe'er  it  be,  it  seems  to  me, 
'Tis  only  noble  to  be  good. 


Kind  hearts  are  more  than  coronets, 
And     simple     faith     than    Norman 
blood. 

I  know  you,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere  : 
You    pine    among   your    halls    and 
towers  : 
The  languid  light  of  your  proud  eyes 

Is  wearied  of  the  rolling  hours. 
In    glowing    health,    with    boundless 
wealth, 
But  sickening  of  a  vague  disease, 
You  know  so  ill  to  deal  with  time, 
You  needs  must  play  such  pranks  as 
these. 

Clara,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

If  Time  be  heavy  on  your  hands, 
Are  there  no  beggars  at  your  gate. 

Nor  any  poor  about  your  lands  ? 
Oh  !  teach  the  orphan-boy  to  read. 

Or  teach  the  orphan-girl  to  sew, 
Pray  Heaven  for  a  human  heart. 

And  let  the  foolish  yeoman  go. 


THE  MAY   QUEEN. 

You  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear ; 

To-morrow  'ill  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad  New-year ; 

Of  all  the  glad  New-year,  mother,  the  maddest  merriest  day  ; 

For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

There's  many  a  black  black  eye,  they  say,  but  none  so  bright  as  mine ; 

There's  Margaret  and  Mary,  there's  Kate  and  Caroline  : 

But  none  so  fair  as  little  Alice  in  all  the  land  they  say. 

So  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May 

I  sleep  so  sound  all  night,  mother,  that  I  shall  never  wake, 

If  you  do  not  call  me  loud  when  the  day  begins  to  break  : 

But  I  must  gather  knots  of  flowers,  and  buds  and  garlands  gay. 

For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

As  I  came  up  the  valley  whom  think  ye  should  I  see. 

But  Robin  leaning  on  the  bridge  beneath  the  hazel-tree  ? 

He  thought  of  that  sharp  look,  mother,  I  gave  him  yesterday, — 

But  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

He  thought  I  was  a  ghost,  mother,  for  I  was  all  in  white. 
And  I  ran  by  him  without  speaking,  like  a  flash  of  light. 


N-RW  YEAR'S  EVE.  43 

They  call  me  cruel-hearted,  but  I  care  not  what  they  say, 

For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

They  say  he's  dying  all  for  love,  but  that  can  never  be : 

They  say  his  heart  is  breaking,  mother — what  is  that  to  me  ? 

There's  many  a  bolder  lad  'ill  woo  me  any  summer  day. 

And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

Little  Effie  shall  go  with  me  to-morrow  to  the  green. 

And  you'll  be  there,  too,  mother,  to  see  me  made  the  Queen  ; 

For  the  shepherd  lads  on  every  side  'ill  come  from  far  away, 

And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queeii  o'  the  May. 

The  honeysuckle  round  the  porch  has  wov'n  its  wavy  bowers, 
And  by  the  meadow-trenches  blow  the  faint  sweet  cuckoo-flowers ; 
And  the  wild  marsh-marigold  shines  like  fire  in  swamps  and  hollows  gray, 
And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

The  night-winds  come  and  go,  mother,  upon  the  meadow-grass, 
And  the  happy  stars  above  them  seem  to  brighten  as  they  pass  ; 
There  will  not  be  a  drop  of  rain  the  whole  of  the  livelong  day, 
And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May 

All  the  valley,  mother,  'ill  be  fresh  and  green  and  still, 

And  the  cowslip  and  the  crowfoot  are  over  all  the  hill, 

And  the  rivulet  in  the  flowery  dale  'ill  merrily  glance  and  play, 

For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

So  you  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear, 
To-morrow  'ill  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad  New-year  : 
To-morrow  'ill  be  of  all  the  year  the  maddest  merriest  day, 
For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 


NEW-YEAR'S  EVE. 

If  you're  waking,  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear, 

For  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New-year. 

It  is  the  last  New-year  that  I  shall  ever  see. 

Then  you  may  lay  me  low  i'  the  mould  and  think  no  more  of  me. 

To-night  I  saw  the  sun  set :  he  set  and  left  behind 
The  good  old  year,  the  dear  old  time,  and  all  my  peace  of  mind ; 
And  the  New-year's  coming  up,  mother,  but  I  shall  never  see 
The  blossom  on  the  blackthorn,  the  leaf  upon  the  tree. 

Last  May  we  made  a  crown  of  flowers  :  we  had  a  merry  day  ; 
Beneath  the  hawthorn  on  the  green  they  made  me  Queen  of  May; 
And  we  danced  about  the  may-pole  and  in  the  hazel  copse, 
Till  Charles's  Wain  came  out  above  the  tall  white  chimney-tops. 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE. 


There's  not  a  flower  on  all  the  hills  ;  the  frost  is  on  the  pane  : 
I  only  wish  to  live  till  the  snowdrops  come  again : 
I  wish  the  snow  would  melt  and  the  sun  come  out  on  high : 
I  long  to  see  a  flower  so  before  the  day  I  die. 

The  building  rook  'ill  caw  from  the  windy  tall  elm-tree. 

And  the  tufted  plover  pipe  along  the  fallow  lea, 

And  the  swallow  'ill  come  back  again  with  summer  o'er  the  wave. 

But  I  shall  lie  alone,  mother,  within  the  mouldering  grave. 

Upon  the  chancel-casement,  and  upon  that  grave  of  mine. 
In  the  early  early  morning  the  summer  sun  'ill  shine, 
Before  the  red  cock  crows  from  the  farm  upon  the  hill, 
When  you  are  warm-asleep,  mother,  and  all  the  world  is  still. 

When  the  flowers  come  again,  mother,  beneath  the  waning  light, 
You'll  never  see  me  more  in  the  long  gray  fields  at  night ; 
When  from  the  dry  dark  wold  the  summer  airs  blow  cool 
On  the  oat-grass  and  the  sword-grass,  and  the  bulrush  in  the  pool. 

You'll  bury  me,  my  mother,  just  beneath  the  hawthorn  shade, 
And  you'll  come  sometimes  and  see  me  where  I  am  lowly  laid. 
I  shall  not  forget  you,  mother,  I  shall  hear  you  when  you  pass. 
With  your  feet  above  ray  head  in  the  long  and  pleasant  grass. 

I  have  been  wild  and  wayward,  but  you'll  forgive  me  now; 
You'll  kiss  me,  my  own  mother,  ana  forgive  me  ere  I  go ; 
Nay,  nay,  you  must  not  weep,  nor  let  your  grief  be  wild, 
You  should  not  fret  for  me,  mother,  you  have  another  child. 

If  I  can  I'll  come  again,  mother,  from  out  my  resting-place  ; 
Tho'  you'll  not  see  me,  mother,  I  shall  look  upon  youT  face ; 
Tho'  I  cannot  speak  a  word,  I  shall  hearken  what  you  say, 
And  be  often,  often  with  you  when  you  think  I'm  far  away. 

Good-night,  good-night,  when  I  have  said  good-night  forevermor®. 
And  you  see  me  carried  out  from  the  threshold  of  the  door ; 
Don't  let  Eflie  come  to  see  me  till  my  grave  be  growing  green  ; 
She'll  be  a  better  child  to  you  than  ever  I  have  been. 

She'll  find  my  garden-tools  upon  the  granary  floor ; 
Let  her  take  'em :  they  are  hers  :  I  shall  never  garden  more  : 
But  tell  her,  when  I'm  gone,  to  train  the  rose-bush  that  I  set 
About  the  parlor-window  and  the  box  of  mignonette. 

Good-night,  sweet  mother ;  call  me  before  the  day  is  born, 
All  night  I  lie  awake,  but  I  fall  asleep  at  morn ; 
But  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New-year, 
So,  if  you're  waking,  call  me,  call  me  early,  mother  dear. 


CONCLUSION.  45 


CONCLUSION. 

I  THOUGHT  to  pass  away  before,  and  yet  alive  I  am  ; 
And  in  the  fields  all  round  I  hear  the  bleating  of  the  lamb. 
How  sadly,  I  remember,  rose  the  morning  of  the  year  ! 
To  die  before  the  snowdrop  came,  and  now  the  violet's  here. 

O  sweet  is  the  new  violet,  that  comes  beneath  the  skies, 
And  sweeter  is  the  young  lamb's  voice  to  me  that  cannot  rise, 
And  sweet  is  all  the  land  about,  and  all  the  flowers  that  blow, 
And  sweeter  far  is  death  than  life  to  me  that  long  to  go. 

It  seera'd  so  hard  at  first,  mother,  to  leave  the  blessed  sun, 
And  now  it  seems  as  hard  to  stay,  and  yet  His  will  be  done  I 
But  still  I  think  it  can't  be  long  before  I  find  release  ; 
And  that  good  man,  the  clergyman,  has  told  me  words  of  peace. 

O  blessings  oh  his  kindly  voice  and  on  his  silver  hair  ! 

And  blessings  on  his  whole  life  long,  until  he  meet  me  there ! 

0  blessings  on  his  kindly  heart  and  on  his  silver  head ! 
A  thousand  times  I  blest  him,  as  he  knelt  beside  my  bed. 

He  taught  me  all  the  mercy,  for  he  show'd  me  all  the  sin. 
Now,  tho'  my  lamp  was  lighted  late,  there's  One  will  let  me  in; 
Nor  would  I  now  be  well,  mother,  again,  if  that  could  be. 
For  my  desire  is  but  to  pass  to  Him  that  died  for  me. 

1  did  not  hear  the  dog  howl,  mother,  or  the  death-watch  beat. 
There  came  a  sweeter  token  when  the  night  and  morning  meet ; 
But  sit  beside  my  bed,  mother,  and  put  your  hand  in  mine, 
And  Effie  on  the  other  side,  and  I  will  tell  the  sign. 

All  in  the  wild  March-morning  I  heard  the  angels  call ; 
It  was  when  the  moon  was  setting,  and  the  dark  was  over  all ; 
The  trees  began  to  whisper,  and  the  wind  began  to  roll, 
And  in  the  wild  March-morning  I  heard  them  call  my  soul. 

For  lying  broad  awake  I  thought  of  you  and  EfHe  dear ; 

I  saw  you  sitting  in  the  house,  and  I  no  longer  here  ; 

With  all  my  strength  I  pray'd  for  both,  and  so  I  felt  resign'd, 

And  up  the  valley  came  a  swell  of  music  on  the  wind.  ' 

I  thought  that  it  was  fancy,  and  I  listen'd  in  my  bed, 
And  then  did  something  speak  to  me — I  know  not  what  was  said  ; 
For  great  delight  and  shuddering  took  hold  of  all  my  mind, 
And  up  the  valley  came  again  the  music  on  the  wind. 

But  you  were  sleeping  ;  and  I  said,  "  It's  not  for  them  ;  it's  mine." 
And  if  it  comes  three  times,  I  thought,  I  take  it  for  a  sign. 
And  once  again  it  came,  and  close  beside  the  window-bars, 
Then  seem'd  to  go  right  up  to  Heaven  and  die  among  the  stars. 


46 


THE  LOrOS-EATERS. 


So  now  I  think  my  time  is  near.     I  trust  it  is.     I  know 
The  blessed  music  went  that  way  my  soul  will  have  to  go. 
And  for  myself,  indeed,  I  care  not  if  I  go  to-day. 
But,  Effie,  you  must  comfort  her  when  I  am  past  away. 

And  say  to  Robin  a  kind  word,  and  tell  him  not  to  fret ; 
There's  many  worthier  than  I,  would  make  him  happy  yet. 
If  I  had  lived — I  cannot  tell — I  might  have  been  his  wife ; 
But  all  these  things  have  ceased  to  be,  with  my  desire  of  life. 

O  look  !  the  sun  begins  to  rise,  the  heavens  are  in  a  glow ; 
He  shines  upon  a  hundred  fields,  and  all  of  them  I  know. 
And  there  I  move  no  longer  now,  and  there  his  light  may  shine- 
Wild  flowers  in  the  valley  for  other  hands  than  mine. 

O  sweet  and  strange  it  seems  to  me,  that  ere  this  day  is  done 
The  voice,  that  now  is  speaking,  may  be  beyond  the  sun — 
Forever  and  forever  with  those  ju«t  souls  and  true — 
And  what  is  life,  that  we  should  moan  t  ^^hy  make  we  such  ado  ? 

Forever  and  forever,  all  in  a  blessed  home — 
And  there  to  wait  a  little  while  till  you  and  Effie  come — 
To  lie  within  the  light  of  God,  as  I  lie  uppn  your  breast — 
And  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary  are  at  rest. 


THE  LOTOS-EATERS. 

**  Courage  !  "    he    said,  and  pointed 
toward  the  land,  [ward  soon." 

"  This  mounting  wave  will  roll  us  shore- 
In  the  afternoon  they  came  unto  a  land. 
In  which  it  seemed  always  afternoon. 
All  round  the  coast  the  languid  air  did 
swoon,  [dream. 

Breathing  like  one  that  hath  a  weary 
Full-faced  above  the  valley  stood  the 
moon :  [der  stream 

And  like  a  downward  smoke,  the  slen- 
■  Along  the  cliff  to  fall  and  pause  and  fall 
*^    did  seem. 

A  land  of  streams  !  some,  like  a  down- 
ward smoke,  [did  go ; 
Slow-dropping  veils  of  thinnest  lawn, 
And  some  thro'  wavering   lights   and 
shadows  broke,  [low. 
Rolling  a  slumbrous  sheet  of  foam  be- 
They  saw  the  gleaming  river  seaward 
flow 


From  the   inner  land :  far  off,  three 

mountain-tops. 
Three  silent  pinnacles  of  aged  snow. 
Stood  sunset-flush'd :  and,  dew'd  with 

showery  drops, 
Up-clomb  the  shadowy  pine  above  the 

woven  copse. 

The  charmed  sunset  linger'd  low  adown 
In  the  red  "West :  thro'  mountain  clefts 

the  dale 

Was  seen  far  inland,  and  the  yellow 

down  [ing  vale 

Border'd  with  palm,  and  many  a  wind- 

And  meadow,  set   with  slender  galin- 

gale: 
A  land  where  all  things  always  seem'd 

the  same  ! 
And  round  about  the  keel  with  faces 

pale. 
Dark  faces  pale  against  that  rosy  flame, 
The    mild-eyed     melancholy     Lotos- 
eaters  came. 


L 


**0  rest  ye,  brother  mariners,  lue  will  not 
wander  more,^^ 

The  Lotos-Eaters. 


Branches  they  bore  of  that  enchanted 

stem,  [they  gave 

Laden  with  flower  and  fruit,  whereof 
To   each,   but   whoso  did    receive    of 

them,  [wave 

And  taste,  to  him  the  gushing  of  the 
Far,  far  away  did  seem  to  mourn  and 

rave  [spake, 

On  alien  shores;  and  if  his  fellow 
His  voice  was  thiii,  as_yoices  from  the 

grave ;  [awake, 

And  deep-asleep  he  seem'd,  yet  all 
And  music  in  his  ears  his  beating  heart 

did  make. 

They  sat  them  down  upon  the  yellow 
sand,  [shore ; 

Between  the  sun  and  moon  upon  the 
And  sweet  it  was  to  dream  of  Father- 
land, [evermore 
Of  child,   and  wife,  and    slave ;    but 
Most  weary  seem'd  the  sea,  weary  the 
oar,  [foam. 
Weary  the  wandering  fields  of  barren 
Then  some  one  said,  "  We  will  return 
no  more  " ;                                    j^home 
And  all  at  once  they  sang,  "  Our  island 
Is  far  beyond  the  wave  ;  we   will   no 
longer  roam." 

?;'  CHORIC  SONG. 


There  is  sweet  music  here  that  softer 

,wj      falls  [grass, 

Y  Than  petals  from  blown  roses  on  the 

Or  night-dews  on  still  waters  between 

walls 
Of  shadowy  granite,  in  a  gleaming  pass ; 
Music  that  gentlier  on  the  spirit  lies. 
Than  tir'd  eyelids  upon  tir'd  eyes  : 
Music   that  brings   sweet  sleep   down 

from  the  blissful  skies. 
Here  are  cool  mosses  deep, 
And  thro'  the  moss  the  ivies  creep, 
And    in    the    stream   the   long-leaved 

flowers  weep,  [hangs  in  sleep. 

And  from  the  craggy  ledge  the  poppy 

2. 

Why  are  we  weigh'd  upon  with  heavi- 
ness, [tress, 
And  utterly  consumed  with  sharp  dis- 


While   all  things  else  have  rest  from 

weariness  ?  [alone, 

All  things  have  rest :  why  should  we  toil 
We    only  toil,  who    are    the   first  of 

things, 
And  make  perpetual  moan. 
Still    from    one     sorrow    to     another 

thrown : 
Nor  ever  fold  our  wings, 
And  cease  from  wanderings, 
Nor  steep  our  brows  in  slumber's  holy 

balm :  [sings, 

Nor    hearken    what   the    inner   spirit 
"  There  is  no  joy  but  calm  !  " 
Why  should  we  only  toil,  the  roof  and 

crown  of  things  ? 

3- 

Lo  !  in  the  middle  of  the  wood. 
The  folded  leaf  is  woo'd  from  out  the 
bud  [there 

With    winds    upon    the   branch,   and 
Grows  green  and  broad,  and  lakes  no 

care, 
Sun-steep'd  at  noon,  and  in  the  moon 
Nightly  dew-fed  ;  and  turning  yellow 
Falls,  and  floats  adown  the  air. 
Lo  !  sweeten'd  with  the  summer  light, 
The  full-juiced  apple,  waxing  over-mel- 
low, 
Drops  in  a  silent  autumn  night. 
All  its  allotted  length  of  days. 
The  flower  ri])ens  in  its  place, 
Ripens  and  fades,  and  falls,  and  hath 

no  toil. 
Fast-rooted  in  the  fruitful  soil.  ' 


Hateful  is  the  dark-blue  sky, 

Vaulted  o'er  the  dark-blue  sea. 

Death  is  the  end  of  life  ;  ah,  why 

Should  life  all  labor  be  ? 

Let  us  alone.  Time  driveth  onward 
fast, 

And  in  a  little  while  our  lips  are  dumb. 

Let  us  alone.    What  is  it  that  will  last  ? 

All  things  are  taken  from  us,  and  be- 
come [Past. 

Portions  and   parcels   of  the  dreadful 

Let  us  alone.  What  pleasure  can  we 
have 

To  war  with  evil  ?     Is  there  any  peace 


In  ever  climbing  up  the  climbing  wave  ? 
All  things  have  rest,  and  ripen  toward 

the  grave 
In  silence  ;  ripen,  fall  and  cease  : 
Give  us  long  rest  or  death,  dark  death, 

or  dreamful  ease. 

5- 
How  sweet  it  were,  hearing  the  down- 
ward stream, 
With  half-shut  eyes  ever  to  seem 
Falling  asleep  in  a  half-dream  ! 
To    dream    and    dream,   like    yonder 
amber  light,  [the  height ; 

Which  will  not  leave  the  myrrh-bush  on 
To  hear  each  other's  whisper'd  speech  ; 
Eating  the  Lotos  day  by  day, 
/To  watch  the  crisping  ripples  on  the 
beach,  [spray ; 

lAnd   tender  curving  lines   of  creamy 
To  lend  our  hearts  and  spirits  wholly 
To  the  influence  of  mild-minded  melan- 
choly ;  [memory. 
To  muse  and  brood  and  live  again  in 
With  those  old  faces  of  our  infancy 
Heap'd  over  with  a  mound  of  grass. 
Two  handfuls  of  white  dust,  shut  in  an 
urn  of  brass ! 


Dear  is  the  memory  of  our  wedded 
lives,  [wives 

And   dear   the  last   embraces    of  our 
And  their  warm  tears  :  but  all  hath  suf- 
fer'd  change  ;  [are  cold  ; 

For  surely  now  our  household  hearths 
Our   sons    inherit  us :  our  looks  are 
strange  :  [trouble  joy. 

And  we  should  come  like  ghosts  to 
Or  else  the  island  princes  over-bold 
Have  eat  our  substance,  and  the  min- 
strel sings  [iroy, 
Before  them  of  the  ten-years'  war  in 
And  our  great  deeds,  as  half-forgotten 

things. 
[s  there  confusion  in  the  little  isle  ? 
Let  what  is  broken  so  remain. 
The  Gods  are  hard  to  reconcile : 
'Tis  hard  to  settle  order  once  again. 
There  is  confusion  worse  than  death, 
Trouble  on  trouble,  pain  on  pain, 
JLeng  labor  unto  aged  Breath, 


Sore  task  to  hearts  worn  out  with  many 

wars  [pilot-stars. 

And  eyes  grown  dim  with  gazing  on  the 

7- 
But,  propt  on  beds  of  amaranth  and 
moly,  [blowing  lowly) 

How  sweet  (while  warm  airs  lull  us, 
With  half-dropt  eyelids  still, 
Beneath  a  heaven  dark  and  holy, 
To  watch  the  long  bright  river  drawing 

slowly 
His  waters  from  the  purple  hill — 
To  hear  the  dewy  echoes  calling 
From  cave   to   cave   thro'   the   thick- 
twined  vine —  [falling 
To   watch  the   emerald-color'd  water 
Thro'  many  a  wov'n  acanthus-v/reath 
divine !                                  [ling  brine, 
Only  to  hear  and  see  the  far-off  spark- 
Only  to  hear  were  sweet,  stretch'd  out 
beneath  the  pine. 
8. 
The  Lotos  blooms  below   the  barren 
peak :                                          [creek  : 
The   Lotos   blows    by  every   winding 
All   day  the   wind  breathes   low   with 

mellower  tone : 
Thro'  every  hollow  cave  and  alley  lone 
Round  and  round  the  spicy  downs  the 

yellow  Lotos-dust  is  blown. 
We  have  had  enough  of  action,  and  of 

motion  we, 
Roll'd  to  starboard,  roll'd  to  larboard, 

when  the  surge  was  seething  free, 
Where  the  wallowing  monster  spouted 

his  foam-fountains  in  the  sea. 
Let  us  swear  an  oath,  and  keep  it  with 
an  equal  mind,  [reclined 

In  the  hollow  Lotos-land  to  live  and  lie 
On  the  hills  like  Gods  together,  care- 
less of  mankind.  [bolts  are  huri'd 
For  they  lie  beside  their  neclar,  and  the 
Far  below  them  in  the  valleys,  and  the 

clouds  are  lightly  curl'd 
Round  their  golden  houses,  girdled  with 

the  gleaming  world  : 
Where   they  smile  in  secret,  looking 

over  wasted  lands, 
Blight  and  famine,  plague  and  earth- 
quake, roaring  deeps  and  fiery  sands, 


A  DREAM  OF  FAIR   WOMFT^. 


49 


Clanging  fights,  and  flaming  towns,  and 

sinking  ships,  and  praying  hands. 
But  they  smile,  they  find  a  music  cen- 
tred in  a  doleful  song 
Steaming   up,   a   lamentation   and   an 

ancient  tale  of  wrong. 
Like   a  tale  of  little  meaning  tho'  the 

words  are  strong; 
Chanted  from  an  ill-used  race  of  men 

that  cleave  the  soil, 
Sow   the   seed,  and   reap  the   harvest 

with  enduring  toil, 
Storing  yearly  little  dues-  of  wheat,  and 

wine  and  oil  ; 
Till  they  perish  and  they  suffer — some, 

'tis  whispered — down  in  hell 
Suffer  endless  anguish,  others  in  Elysian 

valleys  dwell,  [asphodel. 

Resting  weary  limbs  at  last  on  beds  of 
Surely,  surely,^! umber  is  more  sweet 

thaa-LoiJ.  the  shore        

Than  labor  in  the  deep  mid-ocean,  wind 

and  wave  and  oar  ;       [wander  more. 
O  rest  ye,  brother  mariners,  we  will  not 


A  DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN. 

I  READ,  before  my  eyelids  dropt  their 

shade,  [long  ago 

"  The    Legend  of  Good    Women," 

Sung  by  the  morning  star  of  song,  who 

made 

His  music  heard  below  ; 

Dan  Chaucer,  the  first  warbler,  whose 
sweet  l^reath  [that  fill 

Preluded  those  melodious  bursts 
The  spacious  times  of  great  Elizabeth 

With  sounds  that  echo  still. 

And,  for  a  while,  the  knowledge  of  his 

art  [strong  gales 

Held    me    above    the    subject,  as 

Hold  swollen  clouds  from  raining,  tho' 

my  heart, 

Brimful  of  those  wild  tales. 

Charged  both  mine  eyes  with  tears.    In 
every  land 
I  saw,  wherever  light  illumineth. 
Beauty  and  anguish  walking  hand  in 
hand 
The  downward  slope  to  death. 


Those  far-renowned  brides  of  ancient 

song  [ing  stars, 

Peopled  the  hollow  dark,  like  burn- 

And  I  heard  sounds  of  insult,  shame, 

and  wrong. 

And  trumpets  blown  for  wars  ; 

And  clattering  flints  batter 'd  with  clang- 
ing hoofs  :  [sanctuaries  ; 
And   I   saw   crowds   in   column'd 
And  forms  that  pass'd  at  windows  and 
on  roofs 
Of  marble  palaces  ; 

Corpses  across  the  threshold;  heroes 
tall 

Dislodging  pinnacle  and  parapet 
Upon  the  tortoise  creeping  to  the  wall ; 

Lances  in  ambush  set ; 

And  high  shrine-doors  burst  thro'  with 

heated  blasts       [tongues  of  fire ; 

That    run    before    the    fluttering 

White  surf  wind-scatter'd  over  sails  and 

masts, 

And  ever  climbing  higher; 

Squadrons    and    squares    of    men   in 

brazen  plates,  [divers  woes, 

Scaffolds,   still   sheets    of    water. 

Ranges  of  glimmering  vaults  with  iron 

grates. 

And  hush'd  seraglios. 

So  shape  chased   shape   as  swift  as, 

when  to  land         [self-same  way, 

Bluster   the   winds  and  tides  the 

Crisp  foam-flakes  scud  along  the  level 

sand, 

Torn  from  the  fringe  of  spray. 

I  started  once,  or  seem'd  to  start  in 

pain,  [strove  to  speak, 

Resolved    on  noble  things,    and 

As  when  a  great  thought  strikes  along 

the  brain, 

And  flushes  all  the  cheek. 

And  once  my  arm  was  lifted  to  hew 
down 

A  cavalier  from  off  his  saddle-bow, 
That  bore  a  lady  from  a  leaguer'd  town  • 

And  then,  I  know  not  how, 


so 


A  DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN. 


All  those  sharp  fancies  by  down  lapsing 

thought  [and  did  creep 

Stream'd  onward,  lost  their  ed^es, 

Roll'd  on  each  other,rounded,  smooth'd, 

and  brought 

Into  the  gulfs  of  sleep. 

At  last  methought  that  I  had  wandered 

far 

In    an  old  wood :  fresh- wash'd  \\\ 

coolest  dew,  [star 

The  maiden  splendors  of  the  morning 

Shook  in  the  steadfast  blue. 

Enormous  elm-tree  boles  did  stoop  and 

lean  [neath 

Upon  the  dusky  brushwood  under- 

Their  broad  curved  branches,  fledged 

with  clearest  green, 

New  from  its  silken  sheath. 

The  dim  red  morn  had  died,  her  journey 

done, 

And  with  dead  lips  smiled  at  the 

twilight  plain,  [sun, 

Half-fall'n  across  the  threshold  of  the 

Never  to  rise  again. 

There  was  no  motion  in  the  dumb  dead 
air,  [rill ; 

Not  any  song  of  bird  or  sound  of 
Gross  darkness  of  the  inner  sepulchre 

Is  not  so  deadly  still 

As  that  wide  forest.     Growths  of  Jas- 
mine turn'd  [to  tree, 
Their  humid  arms  festooning  tree 
And  at    the    root   thro'    lush    green 
grasses  burn'd 
The  red  anemone. 

I  knev/  the  flowers,  I  knew  the  leaves, 
I  knew  [dawn 

The  tearful  glimmer  of  the  languid 
On   those    long,  rank,   dark  wood- 
walks  drench'd  in  dew, 
Leading  from  lawn  to  lawn. 

The  smell  of  violets,  hidden  in  the 

green, 

Pour'd  back  into  my  empty  soul 

and  frame  [been 

The  times  when  I  remember  to  have 

Joyful  and  free  from  blame. 


And  from  within  me  a  clear  under-tone 
Thrill'd  thro'  mine  ears  in    that 
unblissful  clime, 
"  Pass  freely  thro' :  the    wood  is  all 
thine  own. 
Until  the  end  of  time." 

At  length  I  saw  a  lady  within  call, 

Stiller  than  chisell'd  marble,  stand* 
ing  there  ; 

A  daughter  of  the  gods,  divinely  tail, 
And  most  divinely  fair. 

Her  loveliness  with   shame  and  with 
surprise 
Froze  my  swift  speech  ;  she  turn- 
ing on  my  face 
The  star-like  sorrows  of  immortal  eyes, 
Spoke  slowly  in  her  place. 

"  I  had  great  beauty ;  ask  thou  not  my 

name  : 

No  one  can  be  more  wise  than 

destiny.  [I  came 

Many  drew  swords  and  died.  Where'er 

I  brought  calamity." 

"No  marvel,  sovereign  lady:  in  fair 
field  [died." 

Myself  for  such  a  face  had  boldly 
"{  answer'd  free ;  and  turning  I  appeal'd 

To  one  that  stood  beside. 

But  she,  with  sick  and  scornful  looks 

averse. 

To    her  full    height    her   stately 

stature  draws ;       [with  a  curse  : 

"My  youth,"  she  said,  "  was  blasted 

This  woman  was  the  cause. 

^'  I  was  cut  off  from  hope  in  that  sad 
place, 
"Which    yet  to    name    my   spirit 
loathes  and  fears : 
My  father  held  his  hand  upon  his  fact: 
I,  blinded  with  my  tears, 

"  Still  strove  to  speak :  my  voice  was 

thick  with  sighs 

As  in  a  dream.    Dimly  I  could 

descry  [wolfish  eyes, 

The  stern    black-bearded  kings   with 

Waitincf  to  see  mc  die. 


A  DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN. 


.51 


*'  The  high  masts  flicker'd  as  they  lay 
afloat ; 
The  crowds,  the  temples,  waver'd, 
and  the  shore ; 
The  bright  death  quiver'd  at  the  vic- 
tim's throat ; 
Touch'd  ;  and  I  knew  no  more." 

Whereto  the  other  with  a  downward 

brow  :  [plunging  foam, 

"  I  would  the  white   cold   heavy- 

Whirl'd  by  the   wind,  had  roll'd   me 

deep  below, 

Then  when  I  left  my  home." 

Her  slow  full  words  sank  thro'  the 
silence  drear,  [ing  sea ; 

As  thunder-drops  fall  on  a  sleep- 
Sudden   I   heard  a  voice   that  cried, 
"  Come  here. 
That  I  may  look  on  thee." 

I  turning  saw,  throned  on  a  flowery 

rise. 

One  sitting  on  a  crimson  scarf  un- 

roll'd  ;  [bold  black  eyes, 

A  queen,    with   swarthy    cheeks    and 

Brow-bound  with  burning  gold. 

She,  flashing  forth  a  haughty  smile, 

began :  [so  I  sway'd 

"  I  governed  men  by  change,  and 

All  moods.    'Tis  long  since  I   have 

seen  a  man. 

Once,  like  the  moon,  I  made 

"The  ever-shifting  currents  of  the 
blood  [flow. 

According  to  my  humor  ebb  and 
I  have  no  men  to  govern  in  this  wood  : 

That  makes  my  only  woe. 

"  Nay — yet  it  chafes  me  that  I  could 

not  bend  [mine  eye 

One  will ;  nor  tame  and  tutor  with 

That  dull  cold-blooded  Caesar.    Pry- 

thee,  friend. 

Where  is  Mark  Antony? 

"The  man,  my  lover,  with   whom    I 

rode  sublime  [by  God  : 

On  Fortune's  neck  :  we  sat  as  God 

The  Nilus  would  have  risen  before  his 

time 

And  flooded  at  our  nod. 


"  We  drank  the  Libyan  Sun  to  sleep, 

and  lit  [O  my  life 

Lamps  which  outburn'd  Canopus. 

In  Egypt!     O  the   dalliance  and  the 

wit, 

The  flattery  and  the  strife, 

"  And  the  wild  kiss,  when  fresh  from 
war's  alarms. 

My  Hercules,  my  Roman  Antony, 
My  mailed  Bacchus  leapt  into  my  arms, 

Contented  there  to  die  ! 

'*  And  there  he  died  :  and  when  I  heard 

my  name  [brook  my  fear 

Sigh'd  forth  with  life  I  would  not 

Of  the  other:  with  a  worm  I  balk'd 

his  fame. 

What  else  was  left  ?  look  here  !  '* 

(With  that  she  tore  her  robe   apart, 

and  half  [to  sight 

The  polish'd  argent  of  her  breast 

Laid  bare.     Thereto  she  pointed  with 

a  laugh. 

Showing  the  aspic's  bite.) 

"  I  died  a  Queen.    The  Roman  soldier 

found  [my  brows, 

Me  lying  dead,  my  crown  about 

A  name  forever !  —  lying  robed  and 

crown'd. 

Worthy  a  Roman  spouse." 

Her  warbling  voice,  a  lyre  of  widest 

range  [and  glance 

Struck  by  all  passion,  did  fall  down 

From  tone  to  tone,  and  glided  thro'  all 

change 

Of  liveliest  utterance. 

When  she  made  pause  I  knew  not  for 

delight^,  [the  ground 

Because  with  sudden  motion  from 

She  raised  her  piercing  orbs,  and  fill'd 

with  light 

The  interval  of  sound. 

Still  with  their  fires  Love  tipt  his 
keenest  darts  ;  [ing  rings 

As  once  they  drew  into  two  burn- 
All  beams  of  Love,  melting  the  mighty 
hearts 
Of  captains  and  of  kings. 


52 


A  DREAM  OF  FAIR   WOMEN: 


Slowly  my  sense  undazzled.     Then  I 

heard  [the  lawn, 

A  noise  of  some  one  coming  thro' 

And  singing  dearer  than  the  crested 

bird, 

That  claps  his  wings  at  dawn 

'^  The  torrent  brooks  of  hallow'd  Israel 

From    craggy    hollows     pouring, 

late  and  soon,  [the  dell, 

Sound  all  night  long,  in  falling  thro* 
Far-heard  beneath  the  moon. 

**  The  balmy  moon  of  blessed  Israel 
Floods  all   the    deep-blue    gloom 
with  beams  divine : 
All  night  the  splinter'd  crags  that  wall 
the  dell 
With  spires  of  silver  shine." 

As  one  that  museth  where  broad  sun- 
shine laves  [the  door 

The  lawn  of  some  cathedral,  thro' 
Hearing  the  holy  organ  rolling  waves 

Of  sound  on  roof  and  floor 

Within,  and  anthem  sung,  is  charm'd 
and  tied  [I,  when  that  flow 

To  where  he  stands,  —  so  stood 
Of  music  left  the  lips  of  her  that  died 

To  save  her  father's  vow ; 

The  daughter  of  the  warrior  Gileadite, 

A  maiden  pure  j  as  when  she  went 

along  [come  light, 

From  Mizpeh's  tower'd  gate  with  wel- 
With  timbrel  and  with  song. 

My  words  leapt  forth  :  "  Heaven  heads 
the  count  of  crimes 
With  that  wild  oath."     She  ren- 
der'd  answer  high  : 
**  Not  so,  nor  once  alone ;  a  thousand 
times 
[  would  be  born  and  die. 

**  Single  I  grew,  like  some  green  plant, 

whose  root  [beneath, 

Creeps  to  the  garden  water-pipes 

Feeding  the  flower ;  but  ere  my  flower 

to  fruit 

Changed,  I  was  ripe  for  death. 


"  My  God,  my  land,  my  father, — these 
did  move 
Me  from  my  bliss  of  life,  that  Na- 
ture gave, 
Lower'd  softly  with  a  threefold  cord  of 
love 
Down  to  a  silent  grave. 

"  And  I  went  mourning,  '  No  fair  He- 
brew boy  [among 
Shall  smile  away  my  maiden  blame 
The  Hebrew  mothers ' — emptied  of  all 

Leaving  the  dance  and  song, 

"Leaving  the  olive-gardens  far  below. 
Leaving  the  promise  of  my  bridal 
bower,  [glow 

The  valleys  of  grape-loaded  vines  that 
Beneath  the  battled  ^ower. 

"  The  light  white  cloud  swam  over  us-. 

Anon  [den ; 

We  heard  the  lion  roaring  from  his 

We  saw  the  large  white  stars  rise  one 

by  one, 

Or,  from  the  darken'd  glen, 

'*  Saw  God  divide  the  night  with  flying 

flame,  [hills. 

And   thunder   on  the   everlasting 

I  heard  Him,  for  He  spake,  and  grid 

became 

A  solemn  scorn  of  ills. 

"  When  the  next  moon  was  roll'd  into 
the  sky,  [my  desire. 

Strength  came  to  me  that  equall'd 
How  beautiful  a  thing  it  was  to  die 

For  God  and  for  my  sire  ! 

"  It  comforts  me  in  this  one  thought  to 
dwell,  [will ; 

That  I  subdued  me  to  my  father's 
Because  the  kiss  he  gave  me,  ere  I  fell, 

Sweetens  the  spirit  still. 

**  Moreover  it  is  written  that  my  race 
Hew'd  Ammon,  hip  and  thigh,  from 
Aroer  [face 

On  Arnon  unto  Minneth."     Here  her 
Glow'd,  as  I  look'd  at  her. 


She  lock'd  her  lips  :  she  left  me  where 

I  stood :  [afar, 

"  Glory  to  God,"  she  sang,  and  past 

Thridding  the  sombre  boskage  of  the 

wood, 

Toward  the  morning-star. 

Losing  her  carol  I  stood  pensively, 

As  one  that  from  a  casement  leans 
his  head,  [denly, 

When  midnight  bells  cease  ringing  sud- 
And  the  old  year  is  dead. 

"  Alas  !  alas  ! "  a  low  voice,  full  of  care, 

Murmur'd  beside  me  :  "  Turn  and 

look  on  me  :  [fair, 

I  am  that  Rosamond,  whom  men  call 
If  what  I  was  I  be. 

"  Would  I  had  been  some  maiden 
coarse  and  poor  !  [light ! 

O  me,  that  I  should  ever  see  the 
Those  dragon  eyes  of  anger'd  Eleanor 

Do  hunt  me,  day  and  night." 

She  ceased  in  tears,  fallen  from  hope 

and  trust :  [tamely  died  ! 

To  whom  the  Egyptian  :  "  O,  you 

You  should   have   clung    to    Fulvia's 

waist,  and  thrust 

The  dagger  thro'  her  side." 

With  that  sharp  sound  the  white  dawn's 

creeping  beams,  [mystery 

Stol'n  to  my  brain,  dissolved  the 

Of  folded  sleep.    The  captain  of  my 

dreams 

Ruled  in  the  eastern  sky. 

Morn  brpaden'd  on  the  borders  of  the 

dark,  [last  trance 

Ere  I  saw  her,  who  clasp'd  in  her 

Her  murder'd  father's  head,  or  Joan  of 

Arc, 

A  light  of  ancient  France  ; 

Or  her,  who  knew  that  Love  can  van- 
quish Death,  [her  king. 
Who  kneeling,  with  one  arm  about 
Drew  forth  the  poison  with  her  balmy 
breath, 
Sweet  as  new  buds  in  Spring. 


No  memory  labors  longer  from  the  deep 

Gold-mines  of  thought  to  lift  the 

hidden  ore  [sleep 

That  glimpses,  moving  up,  than  I  from 
To  gather  and  tell  o'er 

Each   little   sound  and  sight.      With 

what  dull  pain  [to  strike 

Compass'd,  how  eagerly  I  sought 

Into  that  wondrous  track   of  dreams 

again ! 

But  no  two  dreams  are  like. 

As  when  a  soul  laments,  which  hath 
been  blest,  [years, 

Desiring  what  is  mingled  with  past 
In  yearnings  that  can  never  be  exprest 

By  signs  or  groans  or  tears  ; 

Because   all    words,    tho'   cuU'd  with 

choicest  art,  [sweet. 

Failing  to  give   the  bitter  of  the 

Wither  beneath   the   palate,   and  the 

heart 

Faints,  faded  by  its  heat. 


MARGARET. 


O  SWEET  pale  Margaret, 

O  rare  pale  Margaret, 
What  lit  your  eyes  with  tearful  power, 
Like  moonlight  on  a  falling  shower  ? 
Who  lent  you,  love,  your  mortal  dower 

Of  pensive  thought  and  aspect  pale, 

Your  melancholy  sweet  and  frail 
As  perfume  of  the  cuckoo-flower  } 
From  the  westward-winding  flood, 
j  From  the  evening-lighted  wood, 

From  all  things  outward  you  have 
won 
A  tearful  grace,  as  tho'  you  stood 

Between  the  rainbow  and  the  sun 
The  very  smile  before  you  speak, 
That  dimples  your  transparent  cheeky 

Encircles  all  the  heart,  and  feedelh 
The  senses  with  a  still  delight 

Of  dainty  sorrow  without  sound, 

Like  the  tender  amber  round. 
Which  the  moon  about  her  spreadeth, 
Moving  thro'  a  fleecy  night. 


54    THE  BLACKBJRD.—  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  YEAR. 


You  love,  remaining  peacefully, 

To  hear  the  murmur  of  the  strife, 
But  enter  not  the  toil  of  life. 

Your  spirit  is  the  calmed  sea, 

Laid  by  the  tumult  of  the  fight. 

You  are  the  evening  star,  alway 

Remaining      betwixt      dark     and 
bright  : 

Lull'd  echoes  of  laborious  day 

Come   to  you,  gleams  of   mellow 

light 
Float  by  you  on  the  verge  of  night. 


"What  can  it  matter,  Margaret, 

What  songs  below  the  waning  stars 
The  lion-heart,  Plantagenet, 

Sang  looking  thro'  his  prison  bars  ? 

Exquisite  Margaret,  who  can  tell 

The  last  wild  thought  of  Chatelet, 

Just  ere  the  fallen  axe  did  part 

The  burning  brain  from  the  true 

heart,  [well  ? 

Even  in  her  sight  he  loved  so 


A  fairy  shield  your  Genius  made 

And  gave  you  on  your  natal  day. 
Your  sorrow,  only  sorrow's  shade, 

Keeps  real  sorrow  far  away. 
You  move  not  in  such  solitudes, 

You  are  not  less  divine, 
But  more  human  in  your  moods. 

Than  your  twin-sister,  Adeline. 
Your  hair  is  darker,  and  your  eyes 

Touch'd  with  a  somewhat  darker 
hue, 

And  less  aerially  blue 

But  ever  trembling  thro*  the  dew 
Of  dainty-woful  sympathies. 

5- 
O  sweet  pale  Margaret, 
O  rare  pale  Margaret, 
Come  down,  come  down,  and  hear  me 

speak : 
Tie  up  the  ringlets  on  you  cheek  : 

The  sun  is  just  about  to  set. 
The  arching  limes  are  tall  and  shady. 
And  faint,  rainy  lights  are  seen, 
Moving  in  the  leafy  beech. 


Rise  from  the  feast  of  sorrow,  lady. 
Where  all  day  long  you  sit  between 
Joy  and  woe,  and  whisper  each. 
Or  only  look  across  the  lawn, 

Loolc  out  below  your  bower-eaves, 

Look  down,and  let'yonr  blue  eves  dawn 

Upon  me  thro'  the  jasmine-leaves. 


THE  BLACKBIRD. 

O  Blackbird  !  sing  me  something  well. 

While   all   the   neighbors  shoot  thee 

round,  [ground, 

I    keep    smooth    plats     of    fruitful 

Where   thou  may'st  warble,  eat,  and 

dwell. 
The  espaliers  and  the  standards  all 
Are  thine ;  the  range   of  lawn  and 

park  : 
The  unnetted  black-hearts  ripen  dark, 
All  thine,  agahist  the  garden  wall. 

Yet,  tho'  I  spared  thee  all  the  Spring, 
Thy  sole  delight  is,  sitting  still. 
With  that  gold  dagger  of  thy  bill 

To  fret  the  Summer  jenneting. 

A  golden  bill !  the  silver  tongue, 
Cold  February  loved,  is  dry  : 
Plenty  corrupts  the  melody 

That  made   thee   famous   once,  when 
young  : 

And  in  the  sultry  garden-squares. 
Now  thy  flute-notes  are  changed  t# 

coarse, 
I  hear  thee  not  at  all,  or  hoarse 

As  when  a  hawker  hawks  his  wares. 

Take  warning  !  he  that  will  not  sing 
While  yon  sun  prospers  in  the  blue, 
Shall  sing  for  want,  ere  leaves  are 
new, 

Caught  in  the  frozen  palms  of  Spring. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD 
YEAR. 

Full  knee-deep  lies  the  winter  snow, 
And  the  winter  winds  are  wearily  sigh 

ing: 
Toll  ye  the  church-bell  sad  and  slow, 
And  tread  softly  and  speak  low, 
For  the  old  year  lies  a-dying. 


TO  J,  S.  55 


Old  year  you  must  not  die  ; 
You  came  to  us  so  readily, 
You  lived  with  us  so  steadily, 
Old  year,  you  shall  not  die. 

He  lieth  still  :  he  doth  not  move  : 

He  will  not  see  the  dawn  of  day. 

lie  hath  no  other  life  above. 

He  gave  me  a  friend,  and  a  true  true- 
love 

And  the  New-year  will  take  *em  away. 
Old  year  you  must  not  go ; 
So  long  as  you  have  been  with  us, 
Such  joy  as  you  have  seen  with  us, 
Old  year,  you  shall  not  go. 

He  froth'd  his  bumpers  to  the  brim ; 

A  jollier  year  we  shall  not  see. 

But  tho*  his  eyes  are  waxing  dim, 

And  tho'  his  foes  speak  ill  of  him, 

He  was  a  friend  to  me. 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  die  ; 
We  did  so  laugh  and  cry  with  you, 
I've  half  a  mind  to  die  with  you, 
Old  year,  if  you  must  die. 

He  was  full  of  joke  and  jest, 
But  all  his  merry  quips  are  o'er. 
To  see  him  die  across  the  waste 
His  son  and  heir  doth  ride  post-haste, 
But  he'll  be  dead  before. 

Every  one  for  his  own. 

The  night  is  starry  and  cold,  my 
friend,  (my  friend. 

And  the  New-year  blithe  and  bold. 

Comes  up  to  take  his  own. 

How  hard  he  breathes  !  over  the  snow 
I  heard  just  now  the  crowing  cock. 
The  shadows  flicker  to  and  fro  : 
The  cricket  chirps  :  the  light  burns  low : 
"Tis  nearly  twelve  o'clock. 

Shake  hands,  before  you  die. 

Old  year,  we'll  dearly  rue  for  you  : 

What  is  it  we  can  do  for  you  ? 

Speak  out  before  you  die. 

His  face  is  growing  sharp  and  thin. 
Alack  1  our  friend  is  gone, 
Close  up  his  eyes  :  tie  up  his  chin : 
Step  from  the  corpse,  and  let  him  in 
That  standeth  there  alone, 
And  waiteth  at  the  door. 


There's  a  new  foot  on  the  floor, 

my  friend,  [friend, 

And  a  new  face  at  the  door,  my 
A  new  face  at  the  dooi". 


TO  J.  S. 

The   wind,  that  beats   the   mountain, 
blows 

More  softly  round  the  open  wold. 
And  gently  comes  the  world  to  those 

That  arc  cast  in  gentle  mould. 

And  me  this  knowledge  bolder  made. 
Or  else  I  had  not  dare  to  flow 

In  these  words  toward  you,  and  invade 
Even  with  a  verse  your  holy  woe. 

'Tis  strange  that  those  we  ler.n  on  most, 
Those  in  whose  laps  our  limbs  are 
nursed, 

Fall  into  shadow,  soonest  lost : 

Those  we  love  first  are  taken  first. 

God  gives  us  love.     Something  to  love 
He  lends  us  ;  but,  when   love    is 
grown 

To  ripeness,  that  on  which  it  throve, 
Falls  off,  and  love  is  left  alone. 

This  is  the  curse  of  time.     Alas! 

In  grief  I  am  not  all  unlearn'd  ; 
Once  thro'  mine  own  doors  Death  did 
pass ; 

One  went,  who  never  hath  return'd. 

He  will  not  smile — not  speak  to  me 
Once  more.     Two  years  his  chair 
is  seen 

Empty  before  us.     That  was  he 

Without  whose  life  I  had  not  been. 

Your  loss  is  rarer ;  for  this  star 
Rose  with  you  thro*  a  little  arc 

Of  heaven,  nor  having  wander'd  far 
Shot  on  the  sudden  into  dark. 

I  knew  your  brother  :  his  mute  dust 
I  honor  and  his  living  worth  : 

A  man  more  pure  and  bold  and  just 
Was  never  born  unto  the  eartbc 


56 


TO  J.  S. 


X  have  not  look'd  upon  you  nigh, 

Since  that  dear   soul    hatk   fall'n 
asleep. 

Great  Nature  is  more  wise  than  I  : 
I  will  not  tell  you  not  to  weep. 

And  tho'  mine  own  eyes  fill  with  dew, 
Drawn  from  the   spirit  thro'  the 
brain, 
I  will  not    ven  preach  to  you, 

"  Weep,  weeping  dulls  the  inward 
pain." 

Let  Grief  be  her  own  mistress  still. 

She  loveth  her  own  anguish  deep 
More   than   much  pleasure.     Let   her 
will 

Be  done — to  weep  or  not  to  weep. 

I  will  not  say  "  God's  ordinance 

Of  Death  is  blown  in  every  wind  " ; 

For  that  is  not  a  common  chance 
That  takes  away  a  noble  mind. 

Kis  memory  long  will  live  alone 

In  all  our  hearts,  as  mournful  light 

That  broods  above  the  fallen  sun, 

And   dwells    in    heaven   half   the 
night. 

Vain  solace  !  Memory  standing  nea. 

Cast   down   her  eyes,  and  in  her 
throat 
Her  voice  seem'd  distant,  and  a  tear 

Dropt  on  the  letters  as  I  wrote. 

I  wrote  I  know  not  what.     In  truth, 
How  should  I  soothe  you  anyway. 

Who  miss  the  brother  of  your  youth  ? 
Yet  something  I  did  wish  to  say  : 

For  he  too  was  a  friend  to  me : 

Both  are  my  friends,  and  my  true 
breast 

Bleedeth  for  both  :  yet  it  may  be 
That  only  silence  suiteth  best. 

Words  weaker  than  your  grief  would 

make  [cease ; 

Grief  more.  'Twere  better  I  should 

Although  myself  could  almost  take 

The  place  of  him  that  sleeps  in 

peace. 


Sleep  sweetly,  tender  heart,  in  peace : 
Sleep,  holy  spirit,  blessed  soul, 

While   the   stars  burn,  the  moons  in- 
crease. 
And  the  great  ages  onward  roll. 

Sleep  till  the  end,  true  soul  and  sweet. 

Nothing    comes   to   thee   new   or 
strange, 
Sleep  full  of  rest  from  head  to  feet  ; 

Lie  still,  dry  dust,  secure  of  change. 


You  ask  me,  why,  tho'  ill  at  ease, 
Within  this  region  I  subsist. 
Whose  spirits  falter  in  the  mist. 

And  languish  for  the  purple  seas  ? 

It  is  the  land  that  freemen  till, 

That  sober-suited  Freedom  chose, 
The  land,  where  girt  with  friends 
or  foes 

A  man  may  speak  the  thing  he  will ; 

A  land  of  settled  government, 

A  land  of  just  and  old  renown, 
Where  Freedom  broadens  slowly 
down 

From  precedent  to  precedent  : 

Where  faction  seldom  gathers  head, 
But  by  degrees  to  fulness  wrought, 
The   strength    of    some    diffusive 
thought  [spread. 

Hath   lime   and   space    to   work    and 

Should  banded  unions  persecute 
Opinion,  and  induce  a  time 
When  single  thought  is  civil  crime. 

And  individual  freedom  mute ; 

Tho'  Power  should  make  from  land  to 
land 
The  name  of  Britain  trebly  great— 
Tho'  every  channel  of  the  State 
Should    almost    choke     with    golden 
sand — 

Yet  waft  me  from  the  harbor-mouth, 
Wild  wind  !  I  seek  a  warmer  sky, 
And  I  will  see  before  I  die 

The  palms  and  temples  of  the  South. 


TO  J.  S. 


57 


Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights, 
The  thunders  breaking  at  her  feet : 

Above  her  shook  the  starry  lights  : 
She  heard  the  torrents  meet. 

There  in  her  place  she  did  rejoice, 

Self-gather'd  in  her  prophet-mind, 

But  fragments  of  her  mighty  voice 
Came  rolling  oe  the  wind. 

Then  stept  she  down  thro'  town  and 
fieW 

To  mingle  with  the  human  race, 
And  part  by  part  to  men  reveal'd 

The  fulness  of  her  face — 

Grave  mother  of  majestic  works. 
From  her  isle-altar  gazing  down, 

Who,  God-like,  grasps  the  triple  forks. 
And,  King-like,  wears  the  crown  : 

Her  open  eyes  desire  the  truth. 

The  wisdom  of  a  thousand  years 
Is  in  them.     May  perpetual  youth 

Keep  dry  their  light  from  tears ; 

That  her  fair  form  may  stand  and  shine, 
Make  bright  our  days  and  light  our 
dreams, 

Turning  to  scorn  with  lips  divine 
The  falsehood  of  extremes  1 


Love  thou  thy  land,  with  love  far- 
brought 
I        From  out  the  storied  Past,  and  used 
Within  the  Present,  but  transfused 
Thro'  future  time  by  power  of  thought. 

True  love  turn'd  round  on  fixed  poles. 
Love,  that  endures  not  sordid  ends, 
For  English  natures,  freemen,  friends. 

Thy  brothers  and  immortal  souls. 

But  pamper  not  a  hasty  time. 
Nor  feed  with  crude  imaginings 
The   herd,   wild  hearts  and  feeble' 
wings. 

That  every  sophister  can  lime. 

Deliver  not  the  tasks  of  might 
To  weakness,  neither  hide  the  ray 
From  those,  not  blind,  who  wait  for 
day, 

The'  sitting  girt  with  doubtful  light. 


Make  knowledge  circle  with  the  winds ; 
But  let  her  herald.  Reverence,  fly 
Before  her  to  whatever  sky 

Bear  seed  of  men  and  growth  of  minds. 

Watch  what   main-currents  draw  the 
years  ; 
Cut  Prejudice  against  the  grain  : 
But  gentle  words  are  always  gain  : 

Regard  the  weakness  of  thy  peers  : 

Nor  toil  for  title,  place,  or  touch. 
Of  pension,  neither  count  on  praise  : 
It  grows  to  guerdon  after-days  : 

Nor  deal  in  watch-words  overmuch  ; 

Not  clinging  to  some  ancient  saw  ; 

Not  master'd  by  some  modern  term ; 

Not  swift  nor  slow  to  change,  but 
firm : 
And  in  its  season  bring  the  law  ; 

That  from  Discussion's  lip  may  fall 
With   Life,  that,  working   strongly, 

binds — 
Set  in  all  lights  by  many  minds, 

To  close  the  interests  of  all. 

For  Nature,  also,  cold  and  warm, 
And  moist  and  dry  devising  long, 
Thro'  many  agents  making  strong. 

Matures  the  individual  form. 

Meet  is  it  changes  should  control 
Our  being,  lest  we  rust  in  ease. 
We  all  are  changed  by  still  degrees, 

All  but  the  basis  of  the  soul. 

So  let  the  change  which  comes  be  free 
To  ingroove  itself  with  that,  which 

flies. 
And  work,  a  joint  of  state,  that  plies 

Its  office,  moved  with  sympathy. 

A  saying,  hard  to  shape  in  act ; 
For  all  the  past  of  Time  reveals 
A  bridal  dawn  of  thunder-peals. 

Wherever  Thought  hath  wedded  Fact 

Ev'n  now  we  hear  with  inward  strife 
A  motion  toiling  in  the  gloom — 
The  Spirit  of  the  years  to  come 

Yearninp:  to  mix  himself  v/ith  Life. 


ss 


THE  GOOSE, 


A  slow-develop'd  strength  awaits 
Completion  in  a  painful  vschool ; 
Phantoms  of  other  forms  of  rule, 

New  Majesties  of  mighty  States — 

The  warders  of  the  growing  hour, 
But  vague  in  vapor,  hard  to  mark ; 
And   round   them  sea   and   air   are 
dark 

With  great  contrivances  of  Power. 

Of  many  changes,  aptly  join'd, 
Is  bodied  forth  the  second  whole. 
Regard  gradation,  lest  the  soul 

Of  Discord  race  the  rising  wind ; 

A  wind  to  puff  your  idol-fires, 

And  heap  their  ashes  on  the  head; 
To  shame  the  boast  so  often  made, 

That  we  are  wiser  than  our  sires. 

O  yet  if  Nature's  evil  star 

Drive  men  in  manhood,  as  in  youth, 
To  follow  flying  steps  of  Truth 

Across  the  brazen  bridge  of  war — 

If  New  and  Old,  disastrous  feud, 
Must  ever  shock,  like  armed  foes, 
And   this   be    true,  till   Time   shall 
close, 

That  Principles  are  rain'd  in  blood ; 

Not  yet  the  wise  of  heart  would  cease 
To  hold  his  hope  thro*  shame  and 

guilt. 
But  with  his  hand  against  the  hilt, 
Would   pace   the   troubled  land,  like 

Peace ; 

Not  less,  tho'  dogs  of  Faction  bay, 

Would  serve  his  kind  in  deed  and 

word,  [sword, 

Certain,    if    knowledge    bring    the 

That  knowledge  takes  the  sword  away — 

Would  love  the  gleams  of  good  that 

broke 

From  either  side,  nor  veil  his  eyes  : 

And  if  some  dreadful   need   should 

rise  [stroke : 

Would   strike,    and    firmly,  and    one 

To-morrow  yet  would  reap  to-day. 
As  we  bear  blossom  of  the  dead , 
Earn  well  the  thrifty  months,  nor  wed 

Raw  Haste,  half-sister  to  Delay. 


THE    GOOSE. 

I  KNEW  an  old  wife  lean  and  poor, 
Her  rags  scarce  held  together  ; 

There  strode  a  stranger  to  the  door^ 
And  it  was  windy  weather. 

He  held  a  goose  upon  his  arm, 
He  utter'd  rhyme  and  reason, 

"  Here,  take  the  goose,  and  keep  you 
warm, 
It  is  a  stormy  season." 

She  caught  the  white  goose  by  the  leg. 

A  goose — 'twas  no  great  matter. 
The  goose  let  fall  a  golden  egg 

With  cackle  and  with  clatter. 

She  dropt  the  goose,  and  caught  the 
pelf, 

And  ran  to  tell  her  neighbors  ; 
And  bless'd  herself,  and  cursed  herself, 

And  rested  from  her  labors. 

And  feeding  high,  and  living  soft, 
Grew  plump  and  able-bodied  ; 

Until  the  grave  churchwarden  doff'd. 
The  parson  smirk'd  and  nodded. 

So  sitting,  served  by  man  and  maid, 
She  felt  her  heart  grow  prouder: 

But  ah  !  the  more  the  white  goose  laid 
It  clack'd  and  cackled  louder. 

It  clutter'd  here,  it  chuckled  there  ; 

It  stirr'd  the  old  wife's  mettle  : 
She  shifted  in  her  elbow-chair, 

And  hurl'd  the  pan  and  kettle. 

"  A  quinsy  choke  thy  cursed  note  J  ** 
Then  wax'd  her  anger  stronger. 

"Go,  take  the  goose,  and  wring  her 
throat, 
I  will  not  bear  it  longer." 

Then  yelp'd  the  cur,  and  yawl'd  the 
cat ; 

Ran  Gaffer,  stumbled  Gamnier, 
The  goose  flew  this  way  and  flew  that, 

And  fill'd  the  house  with  clamor. 

As  head  and  heels  upon  the  floor 
They  floundered  all  together. 

There  strode  a  stranger  to  the  door, 
And  it  was  windy  weather : 


He  took  the  goose  upon  his  arm, 
He  utter'd  words  of  scorning ; 

**  So  keep  you  cold,  or  keep  you  warm, 
It  is  a  stormy  morning." 

The   wild   wind   rang   from  park   and 
plain, 

And  round  the  attics  rumbled. 
Till  all  the  tables  danced  again. 

And  half  the  chimneys  tumbled. 


The  glass  blew  in,  the  fire  blew  out, 
The  blast  was  hard  and  harder. 

Her  cap  blew  off,  her  gown  blew  up, 
And  a  whirlwind  clear'd  the  larder ; 

And  while  on  all  sides  breaking  loose 
Her  household  fled  the  danger, 

Quoth    she,     "The    Devil    take    the 
goose, 
And  God  forget  the  stranger ! " 


ENGLISH    IDYLS'  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 


(published  1842.; 


THE  EPIC. 


At  Francis  Allen's  on  the  Christmas- 
eve, — 

The  game  of  forfeits  done — the  girls  all 
kiss'd 

Beneath  the  sacred  bush  and  past 
away —  [Hall, 

The  parson  Holmes,  the  poet  Everard 

The  host,  and  I  sat  round  the  wassail- 
bowl, 

Then  half-way  ebb'd:  and  there  we 
held  a  talk, 

How  all  the  old  honor  had  from  Christ- 
mas gone, 

Or  gone,  or  dwindled  down  to  some  odd 
games 

In  some  odd  nooks  like  this ;  till  I, 
tired  out  [pond, 

With  cutting  eights  that  day  upon  the 

Where,  three  times  slipping  from  the 
outer  edge,  [stars, 

I  bump'd  the   ice  into  three    several 

Fell  in  a  doze  ;  and  half -awake  I  heard 

The  parson  taking  wide  and  wider 
sweeps, 

Now  harping  on  the  church-commis- 
sioners. 

Now  hawking  at  Geology  and  schism  | 

Until  I  woke,  and  found  him  settled 
down 


Upon  the  general  decay  of  faith 

Right  thro'  the  world,  "  at  home  was 
little  left,  [none 

And  none  abroad :  there  was  no  anchor. 

To  hold  by."  Francis,  laughing,  clapt 
his  hand 

On  Everard's  shoulder,  with  "  1  hold  by 
him." 

•'  And  I,"  quoth  Everard,  "  by  the  was- 
sail-bowl." 

"  Why  yes,"  I  said,  we  knew  your  gift 
that  way 

At  college  :  but  another  which  you  had 

I  mean  of  verse  (for  so  we  held  it  then), 

What  came  of  that.-*"  "You  know," 
said  Frank,  "  he  burnt 

His  epic,  his  King  Arthur,  some  twelve 
books"—  ["O,  sir, 

And    then    to    me    demanding    why  ? 

He  thought  that  nothing  new  was  said, 
or  else 

Something  so  said  'twas  nothing- — that 
a  truth 

looks  freshest  in  the  fashion  of  the 
day :  [ask. 

God  knows  :  he  has  a  mint  of  reasons: 

It  pleased  me  well  enough."  "  Nay, 
nay,"  said  Hall,  [times  } 

'*  Why  take  the  style  of  those   heroic 

For  nature  brings  not  back  the  Mas- 
todon, 


oo 


MORTE  n ARTHUR. 


Nor  we  those  times  ;  and  why  should 

any  man 
Remodel  models  ?  these  twelve  books 

of  mine  [worth, 

Were  faint  Homeric  echoes,  nothing- 
Mere    chaff    and    draff,    much    better 

burnt."     "  But  I," 
Said  Francis,  "pick'd  the  eleventh  from 

this  hearth, 
And  have  it :  keep  a  thing,  its  use  will 

come. 
I  hoard  it  as  a  sugar-plum  for  Holmes." 
He  laugh'd,  and  I,  though  sleepy,  like 

a  horse 
That  hears  the  corn-bin  open,  prick'd 

my  ears  ; 
For   I   remember'd   Everard's  college 

fame 
When  we  were  Freshmen  :  then  at  my 

request 
He    brought  it;    and    the  poet  little 

urged,  [ment. 

But  with  some  prelude  of  disparage- 
Read,  mouthing  out  his  hollow  oes  and 

aes, 
Deep-chested  music,  and  to  this  result. 


MORTE  D'ARTHUR. 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  roll'd 
Among  the   mountains   by  the  winter 

sea ;  [man, 

Until    King    Arthur's    table,   man   by 
Had    fall'n   in    Lyonness    about   their 

Lord, 
King  Arthur  :  then,  because  his  wound 

was  deep. 
The  bQld  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him, 
Sir  Bedivere,  the  last  of  all  his  knights, 
And  bore   him  to  a  chapel   nigh   the 

field, 
A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross, 
That  stood  on  a  dark  strait  of  barren 

land. 
On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 
Lay  a  great  water,  and  the  moon  was 

full. 
Then    spake    King    Arthur    to   Sir 

Bedivere : 


**  The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 
The    goodliest    fellowship   of    famous 

knights 
Whereof  this  world  holds  record.  Such 

a  sleep 
They  sleep — the  men  I  loved.     I  think 

that  we 
Shall  never  more,  at  any  future  time, 
Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly 

deeds,  [halls 

Walking   about   the   gardens   and  the 
Of  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  were. 
I  perish  by  this  people  which  I  made, — 
Tho'  Merlin  sware  that  I  should  come 

again 
To  rule  once  more — but  let  what  will 

be,  be, 
I  am  so  deeply  smitten  thro'  the  helm 
That  without   help   I   cannot  last  "lilT 

morn.  [bur. 

Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  Excalij^ 
Which  was  my  pride  :  for  thou  remem- 

bcrest  how 
In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon, 

an  arm 
Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful. 
Holding  the  sword — and  how  I  rowed 

across  [l<iiig  '• 

And  took  it,  and  have  worn  it,  like  a 
And,  wheresoever  I  am  sung  or  told 
In  aftertime,  this  also  shall  be  known  : 
But  now  delay  not :  take  Excalibur, 
And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle  mere: 
Watch   what   thou   seest,   and    lightly 

bring  me  word." 
To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere; 
*'  It  is  not  meet,  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee 

thus, 
Aidless,   alone,   and   smitten   thro'  the 

helm.  [man. 

A   little   thing  may  harm  a  wounded 
Yet  I  thy  hest  will  all  perform  at  full, 
Watch  what   I    see,  and   lightly  bring 

thee  word." 
So  saying,  from   the  ruined  shrine  he 

stept 
And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of 

tombs. 
Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancier..^ 

men, 


**But  she  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all 

And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap. 

And  loosed  the  shattered  casque,  and  chafed  his  hands ^ 

And  calPd  him  by  his  name,^^ 

MoRTE  D 'Arthur. 


MORTE  D' ARTHUR. 


61 


Old   knights,  and  over  them  the  sea- 
wind  sang  [stepping  down 
Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.     He, 
By  zig-zag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointed 

rock, 
Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 
There  drew  he  forth  the  brand  Ex- 

calibur, 
And   o'er   him,  drawing   it,  the   winter 

moon. 
Brightening  the  skirts  of  a  long  cloud, 

ran  forth 
And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against 

the  hilt : 
For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  diamond 

studs,  [work 

Myriads  of  topaz-lights»  and  jacinth 
Of  subtlest  jewelry;  ""He  gazed  So'Tong 
That  both  his  ejes  were^dazzled,  as  he 

stood, 
This  way  and  that  dividing  the  swift 

mind, 
In  act  to  throw  i  but  at  the  last  it 

seem'd 
Better  to  leave  Excalibur  conceal'd 
There  in  the  many-knotted  waterflags, 
That  whistled  stiff  and  dry  about  the 

marge. 
So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded 


king. 
Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Be- 

divere : 
"Hast    thou    performed    riy    mission 

which  I  gave  ? 
What  is  it  thou    hast  seen    or  what 

hast  heard  ? "  [vere ': 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Be'di- 

"  I   heard  the   ripple  washing   in  the 

reeds, 
And  the  wild   water  lapping  on   the 

crag-" 
To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint 

and  pale  % 
"Thou  hast  betray'd  thy  nature   and 

thy  name. 
Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  beseem'd 
Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight  : 
For  .  surer    sign    had   follow'd,  either 

hand. 
Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  mere. 
.^  This  is  a  shameful  thin^Xoi-men  to  lie.  ■ 
Vet  fiowiT cEarge  tRee,  quickly  go  again 


As  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the 

thing 
I  bade  thee,  watch,  and  lightly  bring 

me  word." 
Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second 

time  ^°*^*'     *""      '~~ 

Across    the  ridge,   and  paced  beside 

the  mere, 
Counting  the  dewy  pebbles,  fix'd  in 

thought ; 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the  hilt, 
How   curiously  and   strangely  chased, 

he  smote 
His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud  : 
_  "And  if  indeed  I  cast  the  brand  away. 
Surely   a  precious   thing,  one   worthy 

note,  [earth, 

Should  thus  be  lost  forever  from  the 
Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes  of 

many  men. 
What  good  should  follow  this,  if  this 

were  done } 
What   harm,  undone }    deep   harm  to 

disobey, 
Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 
Were.it  well  to  obey  then,  if  a  kin^de-^ 

mand  •  "" 

An  act  unprofitable,  against  himself  ? 
The  King  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what 

he  does. 
What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 
Should    be    to    aftertime,.  but    empty 

breath 
And    rumors   of    a  doubt.''    but   were 

this  kept. 
Stored  in  some  treasure-house  of  mighty 

kings,  [arms, 

Some  one  might  show  it  at  a  joust  of 
Saying,  '  King  Arthur's  sword,  Excali- 
bur, 
Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the 

Lake. 
Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in  the 

deeps 
Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills.' 
So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  the 

aftertime 
To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence. 
But  now  much  honor  and  much  fame 

were  lost.' 
— So  spake  he,  clouded  with  his  owa 

conceit,  -— - 


62 


MORTE  W ARTHUR. 


And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time, 
And    so    strode    back    slow    to    the 

wounded  King. 
Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  breathing 

heavily : 
"  What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  ?  or  what 

hast  heard  ? "  [vere  : 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 

*•'  I  heard  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag, 

And   the   long  ripple  washing  in  the 

reeds." 
To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  much 

in  wrath  : 
*' Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
Unknightly,   traitor-hearted  !    Woe  is 

me! 
Authority  forgets  a  dying  king, 
t'aid  widow'd  of  the  power  in  his  eye 
That  bow'd  the  will.     I  see  thee  what 

thou  art, 
For  thou,   the  latest  left  of  all  my 

knights. 
In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all, 
Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  pre- 
cious hilt ; 
-  Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl 
Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 
Yet,  for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice. 
And  the  third  time  may  prosper,  get 

thee  hence : 
But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 
I  will   arise  and  slay  thee  with  my 

hands." 
Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere,  and 

ran, 
And  leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly, 

plunged 
Among  the  bulrush-beds,  and  clutch'd 

the  sword. 
And  strongly  wheel'd  and  threw  it. 

The  great  brand  [moon. 

Made  lightnings  in  the  splendor  of  the 
And  flashing  round  and   round,    and 

whirl'd  in  an  arch, 
Shot  like  a  streamer  of  the  northern 

morn. 
Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  winter 

shock  [sea. 

By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern 
So  fiash'd  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur : 
But  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an 

arm 


Cloth'd  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won« 

derful, 
And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  bran- 

dish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in 

the  mere. 
And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the  King. 
Then  spoke  King   Arthur,  drawing 

thicker  breath: 
"  Now  see  I  by  thine 'eyes  that  this  is 

done. 
Speak  out :  what  is  it  thou  hast  heard 

or  seen  "i  "  [vere : 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 

"  Sir  King,  I  closed  mine  eyelids,  lest 

the  gems  ^         [saw. 

Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I  never 
Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  I 

die, 
Not  tho*  I  live  three  lives  of  mortal 

men, 
So  great  a  miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 
Then   with  both   hands  I   flung   him, 

wheeling  him  ; 
But   when  I  look'd  again,  behold  an 

arm, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful, 
That  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  bras- 

dish'd  him  [mere," 

Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the 

And     answer   made    King    Arthur, 

breathing  hard : 
"  My  end  draws   nigh  ;  'tis  time  that  I 

were  gone. 
Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive 

my  weight. 
And  bear  me  to  the  margin  ;  yet  I  fear 
My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I  shall 

die."  [rose. 

So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he  half 

Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his- arm, 

And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue 

eyes 
As  in'a  picture.     Him  Sir  Bedivere 
Remorsefully  regarded  thro'  his  tears. 
And  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found 

not  words, 
Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on 

one  knee, 
O'er    both    his  shoulders    drew  the 

languid  hands. 


And  rising  bore  him  thro'  the  place 

of  tombs. 
But,   as     he   walk'd,   King   Arthur 

panted  hard,  [bed 

Like  one  that  feels  a  nightmare  on  his 
When  all  the  house  is  mute.    So  sigh'd 

the  King, 
Muttering  and  murmuring   at  his   ear 

"  Quick,  quick  ! 
I  fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I  shall  die." 
But  the  other  swiftly  strode  from  ridge 

to  ridge, 
Clothed  with  his  breath,  and  looking, 

as  he  walk'd, 
Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 
He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a 

cry  [like  a  goacL 

Before.  His  own  thought  drove  him 
Dry  clash'd  his  harness  in  the  icy  caves 
And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left  and 

right 
The  bare  blackcliff  clang'd  round  him, 

as  he  based 
His  feet  on  juts  of  slippery  crag   that 

rang  [heels — 

Sharp-smitten   with  the  dint  of  armed 
And  on  a  sudden,  lo  !  the  level  lake, 
And   the   long  glories   of   the   winter 

moon. 
Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a 

dusky  barge  [stern. 

Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stem  to 
Beneath  them ;  and   descending  they 

were  ware  [st?..tely  forms 

That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with 
Black-stoled,     black-hooded,     like     a 

dream — by  these 
Three  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold — 

and  from  them  rose  [stars, 

A   cry   that  shiver'd    to  the  tingling 
And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony 
Of  lamentation,  like  a  wink,  that  shrills 
All  night  in  a  waste  land,  where  no  one 

comes,  [world. 

Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of  the 

Then  murmur'd  Arthur,  "  Place  me 

in  the  barge,"  [those  three  Queens 
And  to  the  barge  they  came.  There 
Put   forth  their  hands,  and  took  the 

King,  and  wept. 
But  she  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all 
And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap, 


And  loosed  the  shatter'd  casque,  and 

cTiafed  his  hands, 
And  call'd  him  by  his  name,  complain- 
ing loud, 
And  dropping   bitter  tears  against  his 

brow 
Striped  with  dark  blood :  for  all  his  face 

was  white 
And   colorless,  and   like   the   wither'd 

moon 
Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the  spring- 
ing east ; 
And  all  his  greaves  and  cuisses  dash'd 

with  drops  [curls — 

Of  onset ;  and  the  light  and  lustrous 
That  made  his  forehead  like  a   rising 

sun  [parch'd  west 

High  from  the  dais-throne — were 
Or,    clotted   into  points   and   hanging 

loose,  [fringed  his  lips. 

Mix'd  with  the  knightly  growth  that 
So  like  a  shatter'd   column   lay    the 

King; 
Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance  in 

rest,  [ment. 

From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tourna- 
Shot  thro'  the  lists  at  Camelot,  and 

charged 
Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  Kings. 
Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 

vere, 
"  Ah  !  my   Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall 

I  go? 
Where  shall   I   hide  my  forehead  and 

my  eyes  ? 
For  now  I  see  the  true  old  times  are 

dead. 
When   every  morning  brought  a  noble 

chance, 
And  every  chance  brought  out  a  noble 

knight. 
Such   times   have  been   not  since   the 

light  hath  led 
The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 
But  now  the  whole  round  table  is 

dissolved  [world ; 

Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty 
And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companionless, 
And  the  days  darken   round  me,  and 

the  years, 
Among  new  men,  strange  faces,  other 

minds." 


04 


MORTE  D' ARTHUR. 


And  slowly  answer'd  Arthur  from  the 
barge ; 

**  The    old    order    changeth,    yieldmg 
place  to  new, 

And  God  fulfils  himself  in  many  ways, 

Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt 
the  world, 

Comfort   thyself  :  what  comfort  is   in 
me  ? 

I  have  lived  my   life,  and  that  which  I 
have  done 

May    He   within   himself  make  pure  ! 
but  thou, 

If  thou  shouldst  never  see    my  face 
again. 

Pray  for  my   soul.     More  things  are 
wrought  by  prayer 

Than   this   world  dreams  of.     Where- 
fore, let  thy  voice 

Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and 
day. 

For  wliat  are  men  better  than  sheep 
or  goats 

That   nourish  a  blind  life  within  the< 
brain. 

If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of 
prayer 

Both  for   themselves   and  those  who 
call  them  friend  ?  [way 

For  so  the   whole  round  earth  is  every 

Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of 
God. 

But  now  farewell.     I  am  going  a  long 
way 

With  these  thou  seest — if  indeed  I  go — 

(For   all  my  mind   is  clouded  with  a 
doubt) 

To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion  ; 

Where   falls  not  hail,  or   rain,  or   any 
snow, 

Nor  ever  wmd  blows  loudly ;  but  it  lies 

Deep-meadow'd,  happy,  fair   with   or- 
chard-lawns 

And  bowery  hollows  crown'd  with  sum- 
mer sea, 

Where  I  will  heal  me  of  my  grievous 
wound." 
So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar 
and  sail 

Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full- 
breasted  swan — 

T^'f  <,  fluting  a  wild  carol  ere  her  death, 


Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes 
the  flood  [Bediverc 

With  sv^arthy  webs.  Long  stood  Sir 
Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 
Look'd  one  black  dot  against  the  verge 

of  dawn, 
And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  awav. 


Here  ended  Hall,  and  our  last  light, 

that  long 
Had   wink'd  and  threaten'd  darkness, 

flared  and  fell  ; 
At  which  the  Parson,  sent  to  sleep  with 

sound. 
And     waked    with      silence,   grunted 

"  Good  !  "  but  we 
Sat  rapt :  it  was   the  tone  with  which 

he  read — 
Perhaps  some  modern  touches  here  and 

there 
Redeem'd  it  from  the  charge  of  noth- 
ingness— 
Or  else  we  loved  the  man,  and  prized 

his  work  ; 
I  know  not  :  but  we  sitting,  as  I  said, 
The  cock  crew  loud ;  as  at  that  time  or 

year 
The  lusty  bird  takes   every  hour  for 

dawn  : 
Then   P>ancis,  muttering,  like   a  man 

ill-used, 
"  There  now — that's  nothing  !  "  drew  a 

little  back. 
And  drove  his  heel  into  the  smoulder'd 

log, 
That  sent  a  blast  of  sparkles  up  the 

flue  : 
And  so  to  bed ;  where  yet  in  sleep  I 

seem'd 
To   sail   with   Arthur   under   looming; 

shores, 
Point    after   point ;    till   on   to  dawn, 

when  dreams 
Begin  to  feel  the  truth  and  stir  of  day. 
To  me,  methought,  who  waited  with  a 

crowd. 
There  came  a  bark  that,  blowing  for- 
ward, bore 
King  Arthur,  like  a  modern  gentleman 
Of  stateliest  port  j  and  all  the  people 

cried. 


THE  GARDENER'S  DAUGHTER ;  OR,   THE  PICTURES.      65 


*'  Arthur   is  come    again  :  he    cannot 

die." 
Then   those    that  stood  upon  the  hills 

behind  [as  fair  "  ; 

Repeated — "  Come   again,    and   thrice 
And,  further    inland,  voices   echoed — 

"  Come 
With   all   good  things,  and  war   shall 

be  no  more." 
At  this  a  hundred  bells  began  to  peal, 
That  with  the  sound  I  woke,  and  heard 

indeed 
The    clear    church-bells    ring    in    the 

Christmas  morn. 


THE  GARDENER'S  DAUGHTER; 

OR,  THE  PICTURES. 
This  morning  is  the   morning  of  the 

day, 
When   I  and  Eustace  from  the   city 

went 
To   see   the  Gardener's   Daughter ;  I 

and  he,  '  [plete 

Brothers  in  Art ;  a  friendship  so  com- 
Portion'd   in   halves   between   us,  that 

we  grew 
The  fable  of  the  city  where  we  dwelt. 
My  Eustace  mi^ht  have  sat  for  Her- 
cules ; 
So  muscular  he  spread,  so  broad  of 

breast. 
He,  by  some  law  that  holds  in  love, 

and  draws 
The  greater  to  the  lesser,  long  desired 
A  certain  miracle  of  symmetry, 
A  miniature  of  loveliness,  all  grace 
Summ'd   up  and  closed    in    little ; — 

Juliet,  she 
So  light  of  foot,  so  light  of  spirit — oh, 

she 
To  me  myself,  for  some  three  careless 

moons. 
The  sumrner  pilot  of  an  empty  heart 
Unto  the     shores   of  nothing  I  Know 

you  not  [love, 

Such   touches    are   but   embassies   of 
To  tamper  with  the  feelings,  ere  he 

found  [her. 

Empire  for  life  ?  but  Eustace  painted 
And  said  to  me,   she  sitting  with  us 

then, 


"  When  will  you  paint  like  this  ?  "  and 

I  replied,"^ 
(My  words  v;ere  half  in  earnest,  half  in 

jest,) 
"  'Tis    not   your    work,   but     Love's. 

Love,  unperceived, 
A  more  ideal  Artist  he  than  all, 
Came,   drew  your    pencil  from    you, 
made  those  eyes  [hair 

Darker  than  darkest  pansies,  and  that 
More  black  than  ashbuds  in  the   front 

of  March." 
And  Juliet    answer'd    laughing,  "  Go 

and  see 
The   Gardener's   daughter :  trust   me, 

after  that, 
You  scarce   can    fail    to    match    his 

masterpiece." 

And  up  we  rose,  and  on  the  spur  we 

went.  [quite 

Not  wholly   in   the  busy  world,  nor 

Beyond  it,  blooms  the  garden  that   I 

love. 

News  from  the  humming  city  comes 

to  it  [bells  J 

In   sound   of  funeral   or   of  marriage 

And,   sitting  muffled  in   dark   kaves, 

you  hear 

The   windy  clanging  of  the    minster 

clock ;  [lies 

Although  between   it  and  the  garden 

A  league  of  grass,  wash'd  by  a  slow 

broad  stream, 
That,  stirr'd  with  languid  pulses  of  the 

oar. 
Waves  all  its  lazy  lilies,  and  creeps  on. 
Barge-laden,  to  three  arches  of  a  bridge 
Crown'd  with  the  minster  towers. 

The  fields  between 
Are    dewy-fresh,   browsed    by    deep- 

udder'd  kine. 
And  all  about  the  large  lime  feathers- 
low,  ' 
The  lime  a  summer  home  of  murmurous 
wings.     ^  [herself, 

In  that  still  place  she,  hoarded  in 
Grew,  seldom  seen  :  not  less  among 

us  lived 
Her  fame  from  lip  to  lip.    Who  had  not 

heard 
Of   Rose,  the   Gardener's    daughter? 
Where  was  he, 


66      THE  GARDENER'S  DAUGHTER;  OR,  THE  PICTURES. 


So  blunt  in  memory,  so  old  at  heart, 
At  such  a  distance  from  his  youth  in 

grief, 
That,  having  seen,  forgot  ?     The  com- 
mon mouth 
So  gross  to  express  delight,  in  praise 

of  her 
Grew  oratory.     Such  a  lord  is  Love, 
And   Beauty  such   a  mistress   of   the 

world.  [Love, 

And   if   I  said   that  Fancy,  led   by 
Would  play  with  flying  forms  and  im- 
ages. 
Yet  this  is  also  true,  that,  long  before 
I  look'd  upon  her,  when  I  heard  her 

name 
My  heart  was  like  a  prophet  to  my  heart 
And  told  me  I  should  love.     A  crowd 

of  hopes, 
That  sought  to  show  themselves  like 

winged  seeds. 
Born  out  of  everything  I  heard  and 

saw, 
Flutter'd  about  my  senses  and  my  soul ; 
And  vague  desires,  like  fitful  blasts  of 

balm  [air 

To  one  that  travels  quickly,  made  the 
Of    Life    delicious,  and    all   kinds  of 

thought. 
That  verged  upon  them,  sweeter  than 

the  dream 
Dream'd  by  a  happy  man,  when  the 

dark  East,  [morn. 

Unseen,  is   brightening  to  his   bridal 

And  sure  this  orbit  of  the  memory 

folds 
Forever  in  itself  the  day  we  went 
To  see  her.     All  the  land  in  flowery 

squares 
Beneath   a  broad   and    equal-blowing 

wind, 
Smelt  of  the  coming  summer,  as  one 

large  cloud 
Drew  downward :  but  all  else  of  Heaven 

was  pure 
Up  to  the  Sun,  and  May  from  verge  to 

verge, 
And  May  with  me  from  head  to  heel. 

And  now, 
As  tho'  'twere  yesterday,  as  tho'  it  were 
The  hour  just  flown,  that  morn  with  all 

its  sound, 


(For  those   old   Mays   had  thrice   the 

life  of  these,) 
Rings  in  mine  ears.     The  steer  forgot 

to  graze. 
And,  where   the   hedge-row   cuts   the 

pathway,  stood. 
Leaning  his  horns  into  the  neighbor 

field. 
And  lo^ving  to  his  fellows.     From  the 

woods 
Came    voices    of    the    well-contented 

doves. 
The  lark  could  scarce  get  out  his  notes 

for  joy 
But  shook  his  song  together  as  he  near'd 
His  happy  home,  the  ground.     To  left 

and  right,  [hills; 

The  cuckoo  told  his  name  to  all  the 
The  mellow  ouzel  fluted  in  the  elm  ; 
The  redcap  whistled  ;  and  the  nightin- 
gale [day. 
Sang  loud,  as  tho'  he  were  the  bird  of 
And  Eustace  turn'd,  and  smiling  said 

to  me, 
**  Hear  how  the  bushes  echo !  by  my  life 
These    birds     have    joyful    thoughts. 

Think  you  they  sing 
Like  poets,  from  the  vanity  of  song .? 
Or  have  they  any  sense  of  why  they 

sing? 
And   would   they  praise   the   heavens 

for  what  they  have  .''  " 
And  I  made  answer,  "  Were  there  noth- 
ing else 
For  which  to  praise  the  heavens  but 

only  love. 
That  only  love  were  cause  enough  for 

praise." 
Lightly  he  laugh'd,  as  one  that  read 

my  thought. 
And  on  we  went ;  but  ere  an  hour  had 

pass'd,  [North ; 

We  reach'd  a  meadow  slanting  to  the 
Down    which    a    well-worn    pathway 

courted  us 
To  one  green  wicket  in  a  privet  hedge  ; 
This,  yielding,  gave  into  a  grassy  walk 
Thro'    crowded     lilac-ambush     trimly 

pruned ; 
And    one    warm    gust,  full-fed    with 

perfume,  blew 
Beyond  us,  as  we  enter'd  in  the  cool. 


THE  GARDENER-' S  DAUGHTER;  OR,  THE  PICTURES.      67 


The  garden  stretches  southward.     In 
the  midst 

A.  cedar  spread  his  dark-green  layers 
of  shade. 

The   garden-glasses    shone,  and    mo- 
mently [lights. 

The   twinkling   laurel   scatter'd  silver 
"  Eustace,"  I  said,  this  wonder  keeps 
the  house." 

He  nodded,  but  a  moment  afterwards 

He  cried,  "  Look  !  look  !  "     Before  he 
ceased  I  turn'd,  [there. 

And,  ere  a  star  can  wink,  beheld  her 
For  up  the  porch  there  grew  an  East- 
ern rose, 

That,  flowering  high,  the  last   night's 
gale  had  caught, 

And  blown  across  the  walk.     One  arm 
aloft— 

Gown'd  in  pure  white,  that  fitted  to 
the  shape — 

Holding  the  bush,  to  fix  it  back,  she 
stood.  [hair 

A  single  stream  of  all  her  soft  brown 

Pour'd  on  one  side  :  the  shadow  of  the 
flowers  [ing 

Stole  all  the  golden  gloss,  and,  waver- 
Lovingly    lower,    trembled     on    her 
waist — 

Ah,    happy    shade  —  and    still     went 
wavering  down. 

But,  ere  it  touch'd  a  foot,  that  might 
have  danced  [dipt, 

The  greensward  into  greener  circles, 

And  mix'd  with  shadows  of  the  com- 
mon ground  ! 

But  the  full  day  dwelt  on  her  brows, 
and  sunn'd 

Her  violet  eyes,  and  all   her   Hebe- 
bloom, 

And  doubled  his  own  warmth  against 
her  lips, 

And  on  the  bounteous  wave  of  such  a 
breast  [shade, 

As  never  pencil  drew.    Half  light,  half 

She  stood,  a  sight  to  make  an  old  man 
young. 
So  rapt,  we  near'd  the  house ;  but 
she,  a  Rose 

In  roses,  mingled  with  her  fragrant  toil, 

Nor  heard  us  come,  nor  from  her  tend- 
ance turn'd 


Into  the  world  without;  till  close  at 

hand. 
And  almost  ere  I  knew  mine  own  in^ 

tent. 
This  murmur  broke   the  stillness   of 

that  air 
Which  brooded  round  about  her : 

"Ah,  one  rose, 
One  rose,  but  one,  by  those  fair  fingers 

cull'd,  [on  lips 

Were  worth  a  hundred  kisses  press'd 
Less  exquisite  than  thine." 

She  look'd  :  but  all 
Suffused  with    blushes — neither  self- 

possess'd 
Nor   startled,  but   betwixt  this   mood 

and  that, 
Divided  in  a  graceful  quiet — paused, 
And  dropt  the   branch  she  held,  and 

turning,  wound 
Her  looser  hair  in  braid,  and  stirr'd 

her  lips 
For  some  sweet  answer,  tho'  no  answer 

came, 
Nor  yet  refused  the  rose,  but  granted  it. 
And  moved  away,  and  left  me,  statue- 
like. 
In  act  to  render  thanks. 

I,  that  whole  day, 
Saw    her   no   more,  altho'   I   linger'd 

there 
Till    every    daisy    slept,  and    Love's 

white  star 
Beam'd  thro'  the  thicken'd  cedar  in  the 

dusk. 
So  home  we  went,  and  all  the  live- 
long way  [me. 
With  solemn  gibe  did  Eustace  banter 
"Now,"  said  he,  "will  you  climb  the 

top  of  Art. 
You  cannot  fail  but  work  in  hues  to  dim 
The  Titianic  Flora.     Will  you  match 
My  Juliet  ?  you,  not  you, — the  iVIaster, 

Love, 
A  more  ideal  Artist  he  than  all." 
So  home  I  went,  but  could  not  sleep 

for  joy,  [gloom, 

Reading   her  perfect   features   in  the 
Kissing  the  rose  she  gave  me  o'er  and 

o'er, 
And  shaping  faithful   record  of    the 

glance 


68        THE  GARDENER'S  DAUGHTER;  OR,  THE  PICTURES. 


That  graced  the  giving — such  a  noise 

of  life  [voice 

Swarm'd  in  the  golden  present,  such  a 

Call'd  to  me  from  the  years  to  come, 

and  such 
A   length   of  bright    horizon   rimm'd 

the  dark. 
And  all  that  night  I  heard  the  watch- 
men peal 
The  sliding  season:  all  that  night   I 

heard 
The  heavy  clocks  knolling  the  drowsy 

hours. 
The   drowsy  hours,  dispensers  of  all 

good, 
O'er  the   mute  city  stole  with  folded 

wings, 
Distilling  odors  on  me  as  they  went 
To  greet  their  fairer  sisters  of  the  East. 
Love  at  first  sight,  first-born,  and  heir 

to  all, 
Made  this  night  thus.     Henceforward 

squall  nor  storm 
Could  keep  me  from  that  Eden  where 

she  dwelt. 
Light  pretexts  drew  me:  sometimes  a 

Dutch  love 
For   tulips;  then   for   roses,  moss  or 

musk, 
To    grace    my  city-rooms :    or  fruits 

and  cream 
Served  in  the  weeping  elm ;  and  more 

and  more  [cheek; 

A  word  could  bring  the  color  to  my 
A   thought   would   fill   my  eyes   with 

happy  dew  ;  [each 

Love  trebled  life  within  me,  and  with 
The  year  increased. 

The  daughters  of  the  year, 
One  after  one,  thro'  that  still  garden 

pass'd : 
Each  garlanded  with  her  peculiar  flower 
Danced  into  light,  and  died  into  the 

shade ; 
And  each  in  passing  touch'd  with  some 

new  grace 
Or  seem'd  to  touch  her,  so  that  day  by 

day, 
Like   one   that  never  can  be  wholly 

known, 
Her  beauty  grew ;  till  Autumn  brought 

an  hour 


For  Eustace,  when  I  heard  his  deep 

"I  will," 
Breathed,  like  the  covenant  of  a  God, 

to  hold 
From  thence  thro'  all  the  worlds :  but 

I  rose  up 
Full  of  his  bliss,  and  following  her  dark 

eyes 
Felt   earth   as   air  beneath   me,  til!  I 

reach'd 
The  wicket-gate,  and  found  her  stand- 
ing there. 
There  sat  we  down  upon  a  garden 

mound. 
Two    mutually    enfolded ;    Love,  the 

third. 
Between  us,  in  the  circle  oc  his  arms 
Enwound  us  both;  and  over  many  a 

range 
Of  waning    lime   the    gray  cathedral 

towers, 
Across  a  hazy  glimmer  of  the  west, 
Reveal'd  their  shining  windows :  from 

them  clash'd 
The  bells;  we  listen'd;  with  the  time 

we  play'd ; 
We  spoke  of  other  things  ;  we  coursed 

about 
The  subject  most  at  heart,  more  near 

and  near, 
Like  doves  gibout  a  dovecote,  wheeling 

round 
The  central  wish,  until  we  settled  there. 
Then,  in  that  time  and  place,  I  spoke 

to  her, 
Requiring,  tho'  I  knew  it  was  mine  own. 
Yet    for  the    pleasure   that  I  took  to 

hear. 
Requiring  at  her  hand  the  greatest  gift, 
A  woman's   heart,  the  heart  of  her  I 

loved; 
And  in  that  time   and  place    she  an= 

swer'd  me. 
And   in    the   compass   of  three   little 

words. 
More  musical  than  ever  came  in  one, 
The  silver  fragments  of  a  broken  voice, 
Made  me  most  happy,  faltering  "  I  am 

thine." 
Shall  I  cease  here  .?    Is  this  enough 

to  say 
That  my  desire,  like  all  strongest  hopes, 


By  its  own  energy  fulfill'd  itself, 

Merged  in   completion  ?     Would   you 
learn  at  full  [grades 

How  passion  rose  thro'  circumstantial 

Beyond  all  grades  develop'd  ?  and  in- 
deed 

I  had  not  stayed  so  long  to  tell  you  all, 

But  while  I  mused  came  Memory  with 
sad  eyes, 

Holding  the  folded  annals  of  my  youth ; 

And  while  I  mused,  Love   with   knit 
brows  went  by, 

And  with  a  flying   finger   swept  my 
lips,  [given 

And  spake,  "Be  wise  :  not  easily  for- 

Are  those,  who,  setting  wide  the  doors 
that  bar  [heart, 

The   secret    bridal    chambers   of    the 

Let  in  the  day."    Here,  then,  my  words 
have  end. 
Yet  might  I  tell  of  meetings,  of  fare- 
wells— 

Of  that  which  came    between,  more 
sweet  than  each, 

In  whispers,  like  the  whispers  of  the 
leaves 

That  tremble  round  a  nightingale — in 
sighs 

Which  perfect  Joy,  perplex'd  for  utter- 
ance, 

Stole  from  her  sister  Sorrow.     Might  I 
not  tell 

Of  difference,   reconcilement,   pledges 
given. 

And  vows,  where  there  was  never  need 
of  vows, 

And  kisses,  where   the  heart  on  one 
wild  leap  [above 

Hung  tranced   from   all   pulsation,  as 

The  heavens  between  their  fairy  fleeces 
pale 

Sow'd  all  their  mystic  gulfs  with  fleeting 
stars  ; 

Or  while  the  balmy  glooming,  crescent- 
lit. 

Spread  the  light  haze  along  the  river- 
shores, 

And  in  the  hollows  ;  or  as  once  we  met 

Unheedful,  tho'  beneath  a  whispering 
rain 

Night  slid  down  one  long  stream  of 
sighing  wind. 


And  in  her  bosom  bore  the  baby,  Sleep 
But  this  whole  hour  your  eyes  have 

been  intent 
On  that  veil'd  picture — veilM  for  what 

it  holds 
May  not  be  dwelt  on  by  the  common 

day. 
This  prelude  has  prepared  thee.   Raise 

thy  soul ; 
Make  thine  heart  ready  with  thine  eyes ; 

the  time 
Is  come  to  rise  the  veil. 

Behold  her  there. 
As  I  beheld  her  ere  she  knew  my  heart. 
My   first,    last   love;    the   idol   of    my 

youth, 
The  darling  of  my  manhood,  and,  alas ! 
Now  the  most  blessed  memory  of  mine 

age. 


DORA. 

With  farmer  Allan  at  the  farm  abode 
William  and  Dora.     William  was  his 

son,  [them. 

And  she  his  niece.     He  often  look'd  at 
And  often  thought  "I'll  make  them 

man  and  wife." 
Now  Dora  felt  her  uncle's  will  in  all, 
And  yearn'd  towards  William ;  but  the 

youth,  because  [house, 

He  had  been  always  with  her  in  the 
Thought  not  of  Dora. 

Then  there  came  a  day 
When  Allan  call'd  his  son,  and  saici, 

*'  My  son: 
I  married  late,  but  I  would  wish  to  see 
My  grandchild  on  my  knees  before  I 

die : 
And  I  have  set  my  heart  upon  a  match. 
Now  therefore  look  to  Dora ;   she  is 

well 
To  look  to;  thrifty  too  beyond  her  age. 
She  is  my  brother's  daughter  :  he  and  I 
Had  once  hard  words,  and  parted,  and 

he  died 
In  foreign  lands  ;  but  for  his  sake  I  bred 
His  daughter  Dora  ;  take  her  for  your 

wife; 
For  I  have  wish'd  this  marriage,  night 

and  day, 


7« 


DORA. 


For   many   years."     But   William  an- 
swered short : 
"  I  cannot  marry  Dora  ;  by  my  life, 
I  will  not  marry  Dora."     Then  the  old 

man 
Was  wroth,  and  doubled  up  his  hands, 

and  said : 
**You    will    not,   boy!     you    dare    to 

answer  thus! 
But  in  my  time  a  father's  word  was  law, 
And  so  it  shall  be  now  for  me.     Look 

to  it ;  [think 

Consider,  William :  take  a  month  to 
And  let  mc  have  an  answer  to  my  wish  ; 
Or,  by  the  Lord  that  made  me,  you  shall 

pack. 
And    never    more    darken    my  doors 

again." 
But  William  answered  madly ;  bit  His 

lips,  [at  her 

And  broke  away.  The  more  he  look'd 
The  less  he  liked  her :  and  his  ways 

were  harsh ; 
But  Dora   bore   them   meekly.     Then 

before 
The  month  was  out  he  left  his  father's 

house,  [fields ; 

And  hired  himself  to  work  within  the 
And  half  in  love,  half-spite,  he  woo'd 

and  wed 
A  laborer's  daughter,  Mary  Morrison. 
Then,  when  the  bells  were  ringing, 

Allan  call'd 
His  niece  and  said:  "My  girl,  I  love 

you  well : 
But  if  you  speak  with  him  that  was  my 

son,  [wife, 

Or  change  a  word  with  her  he  calls  his 
My  home  is  none  of  yours.     My  will  is 

law."  [thought. 

And  Dora  promised,  being  meek.  She 
**  It  cannot  be  :  my  uncle's  mind  will 

change  ! " 
And  days  went  on,  and  there   was 

born  a  boy 
To  William ;  then  distresses  came  on 

him ;  [gate. 

And  day  by  day  he  pass'd  his  father's 
Heart-broken,  and    his  father    help'd 

him  not. 
But  Dora  stored  what  little  she  could 

save, 


And  sent  it  them  by  stealth,  nor  did 

they  know 
Who  sent  it ;  till  at  last  a  fever  seized 
On  William,  and  in  harvest  time  he 

died. 
Then  Dora  went  to  Mary.     Mary  sat 
And  look'd  with  tear.s  upon  her  b6y, 

and  thought 
Hard  things  of  Dora.     Dora  came  and 

said  : 
*'•  I  have  obeyed  my  uncle  until  now, 
And  I  have  sinn'd,  for  it  was  all  thro' 

me 
This  evil  came  on  William  at  the  first. 
But,  Mary,  for  the  sake  of  him  that's 

gone,  [chose. 

And  for  your  sake,  the  woman  that  he 
And  for  this  orphan,  I  am  come  to  you  : 
You  know  there  has  not  been  for  these 

five  years 
So  full  a  harvest :  let  me  take  the  boy. 
And  I  will  set  him  in  my  uncle's  eye 
Among  the  wheat ;  that  when  his  heart 

is  glad 
Of  the  full  harvest,  he  may  see  the  boy, 
And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him  that's 

gone.'* 
And  Dora  took  the  child,  and  went 

her  way 
Across    the    wheat,   and    sat  upon   a 

mound  [grew. 

That  was  unsown,  where  many  poppies 
Far  off  the  farmer  came  into  the  field 
And  spied  her  not;  for  none  of  all  his 

men  [child ; 

Dare  tell  him  Dora  waited  with  the 
And  Dora  would  have  risen  and  gone 

to  him, 
But  her  heart  fail'd  her ;  and  the  reap- 
ers reap'd, 
And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was 

dark. 
But  when  the  morrow  came,  she  rose 

and  took 
The  child  once  more,  and  sat  upon  the 

mound ; 
And  made  a  little  wreath  of  all  the 

flowers 
That  grew  about,  and  tied  it  round  his 

hat 
To  make  him  pleasing  in  her  uncle's 

eye. 


DORA. 


71 


Then  when  the  farmer  pass'd  into  the 

field 
He  spied  her,  and  he  left  his  men  at 

work, 
And  came  and  said  :  '*  Where  were  you 

yesterday  ? 
Whose  child  is  that!     What  are  you 

doing  here  ? " 
So  Dora  cast  her  eyes  upon  the  ground, 
And  answer'd  softly,  "  This  is  William's 

child  ! " 
"  And  did  I  not,"  said  Allan,  "  did  I 

not 
Forbid  you,  Dora  ? "     Dora  said  again, 
"  Do  with  me  as  you  will,  but  take  the 

child 
And  bless  him   for   the   sake   of   him 

that's  gone  !  " 
And  Allan  said,  "  I  see  it  is  a  trick 
Got  up   betwixt  you   and   the   w-oman 

there. 
I  must  be  taught  my  duty,  and  by  you  ! 
You  knew  my  word  was  law,  and  yet 

you  dared 
To  slight  it.     Well— for  I  will  take  the 

boy  ; 

But  go  you  hence,  and  never  see  me 

more."  [aloud 

So  saying,  he  took  the  boy,  that  cried 

And  struggled  hard.     The  wreath   of 

flowers  fell 
At  Dora's  feet.     She  bow'd  upon  her 

hands. 
And  the  boy's  cry  came  to  her  from 

the  field, 
More  and  more  distant.      She  bow'd 

down  her  head, 
Remembering  the  day  when  first  she 

came. 
And  all  the  things  that  had  been.     She 

bow'd  down 
And  wept  in  secret;  and  the   reapers 
reap'd,  [dark. 

And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  Jhe  land  was 
dark. 
Then    Dora  went   to   Mary's  house, 
and  stood 
Upon   the   threshold.      Mary  saw  the 

boy 
Was  not  with  Dora.     She  broke  out  in 
praise  [bond. 

To  God,  that  help'd  her  in  her  widow- 


And  Dora  said,   "My  uncle  took  the 

boy ;  [you : 

But,  Mary,  let  me  live  and  work  with 
He   says   that   he   will   never   see   me 

more." 
Then    answer'd    Mary,     "  This     shall 

never  be. 
That  thou  shouldst  take  my  trouble  on 

thyself : 
And,  now  I  think,  he  shall  not  have 

the  boy, 
For  he  will  teach  him  hardness,  and  to 

slight 
His  mother ;  therefore  thou  and  I  will 

SO 
And  I  will  have  my  boy,  and  bring  him 

home ; 
And  I  will  beg  of   him   to   take   thee 

back; 
But  if  he  will  not  take  thee  back  again, 
Then  thou  and  I  will  live  within  one 

house, 
And  work  for  William's  child,  until  he 

grows 
Of  age  to  help  us." 

So  the  women  kiss'd 
Each   other,  and  set  out,  and  reach'd 

the  farm. 
The  door  was  off  the  latch :  they  peep'd 

and  saw 
The  boy  set  up  betwixt  his  grandsire's 

knees,  [arm. 

Who  thrust  him  in  the  hollows  of  his 
And  clapt  him  on  the  hands  and  on  the 

cheeks. 
Like  one  that  loved  him ;  and  the  lad 

stretch'd  out 
And  babbled  for  the  golden  seal  that 

hung 
From  Allan's  watch,  and  sparkled  by 

the  fire. 
Then  they  came  in  :  but  when  the  boy 

beheld 
His  mother,  he  cried  out  to  come  to 

her: 
And  Allan  set   him  down,  and  Mary 

said : 
"O  Father— if  you  let  me  call  you 

so — 
I  never  came  a-begging  for  myself. 
Or  William,  or  this  child ^  but  now  I 

come 


AUDLEY  COURT. 


For  Dora :  take  her  back :  she  loves 
you  well 

0  Sir,  when  William  died,  he  died  at 

peace 
With  all  men  ;  for  I  ask'd  him,  and  he 

said, 
He   could  not  ever  rue  his  marrying 

me — 

1  had  been  a  patient  wife  ;  but,  Sir,  he 

said 
That  he  was  wrong  to  cross  his  father 

thus : 
'  God  bless  him  ! '  he  said,  *  and  may  he 

never  know 
The  troubles  I  have  gone  thro' ! '  Then 

he  turn'd 
His  face  and  pass'd — unhappy  that  I 

am  I 
But  now,  Sir,  let  me  have  my  boy,  for 

you 
Will  make  him  hard,  and  he  will  learn 

to  slight 
His  father's  memory;  and  take  Dora 

back. 
And  let  all  this  be  as  it  was  before." 

So  Ma,ry  said,  and  Dora  hid  her  face 
By  Mary.      There  was   silence  in  the 

room  ; 
And  all  at  once  the  old  man  burst  in 

sobs  : 
"  I  have  been  to  blame — to  blame.    I 

have  kill'd  my  son. 
I  have  kill'd  him — but  I  loved  him — 

my  dear  son. 
May  God  forgive  me ! — I  have  been 

to  blame. 
Kiss  me,  my  children.'' 

Then  they  clung  about 
The  old  man's  neck,  and  kiss'd  him 

many  times. 
And  all  the  man  was  broken  with  re- 
morse ; 
And  all  his  love  came  back  a  hundred- 
fold ; 
And  for    three  hours  he  sobb'd  o'er 

William's  child. 
Thinking   of  William. 

So  those  four  abode 
Within   one   house   together;  and  as 

time  [mate ; 

Went    forward,    Mary    took    anotlier 
But  Dora  lived  unmarried  till  her  death. 


AUDLEY  COURT. 

"  The  Bull,  the  Fleece  are  cramm'd. 
and  not  a  room 

For  love   or  money.      Let  us  picnic 
there 

At  Audley  Court." 

I  spoke,  while  Audley  feast 

Humm'd  like  a  hive  all  round  the  nar- 
row quay, 

To  Francis,  with  a  basket  on  his  arm, 

To  Francis  just  alighted  from  the  boat, 

And  breathing  of  the   sea,     "  With  all 
my  heart," 

Said    Francis.      Then    we   shoulder'd 
thro'  the  swarm, 

And   rounded   by  the  stillness   of  the 
beach  [horn. 

To  where  the  bay  runs  up  its   latest 
We  left  the  dying  ebb  that  faintly 
lipp'd 

The  flat  red  granite;  so  by  many  a 
sweep 

Of  meadow  smooth  from  aftermath  we 
reach'd 

The   griffin-guarded  gates,  and  pass'd 
thro'  all 

The    pillar'd    dusk  of   sounding   syc- 
amores, 

And   cross'd   the    garden   to   the  gar- 
dener's lodge. 

With  all  its  casements  bedded,  and  its 
walls 

And  chimneys  muffled  in  the  leafy  vine. 
There,  on  a  slope  of  orchard,  Fran- 
cis laid 

A  damask  napkin  wrought  with  horse 
and  hound, 

Brought  out  a  dusky  loaf  that  smelt  of 
home, 

And,    half-cut-down,    a    pasty    costly 
made, 

Where  quail  and  pigeon,  lark  and  lev- 
eret lay, 

Like  fossils  of  the  rock,  with  golden 
yokes 

Imbedded    and    injellied;     last,    with 
these, 

A  flask  of  cider  from  his  father's  vats, 

Prime,  which  I  knew ;  and  so  we  sat 
.    and  eat  [dead, 

And  talk'd  old  matters  over :  who  was 


WALKING  TO  THE  MAIL. 


73 


Who  married,  who  was  like  to  be,  and 

how 
The  races  went,  and  who  would  rent 

the  hall : 
Then   touch'd    upon    the    game,   how 

scarce  it  was 
This  season;  glancing  thence,  discuss'd 

the  farm, 
The  fourfield  system,  and  the  price  of 

grain ; 
And  struck  upon  the  corn-laws,  where 

we  split, 
And  came  again  together  on  the  king 
With    heated    faces;    till    he   laugh'd 

aloud ;  [hung 

And,  while  the  blackbird  on  the  pippin 
To  hear  him,  clapt  his  hand  in  mine 

and  sang  : 
"O,  who  would  fight  and  march  and 

countermarch, 
Be  shot  for  sixpence  in  a  battle-field, 
And  shovell'd  up  into  a  bloody  trench 
Where  no  one  knows  ?  but  let  me  live 

my  life.  [desk, 

*'0,  who  would  cast  and  balance  at  a 

Perch'd  like  a  crow  upon  a  three-legg'd 

stool, 
Till  all  his  juice  is  dried,  and  all  his 

joints 
Are  full  of  chalk  ?  but  let  me  live  my 

life 
"Who'd  serve   the  state?    for  if  I 

carved  my  name 
Upon  the  cliffs  that  guard  my  native 

land,  [sands ; 

I  might  as  well  have  traced  it  in  the 
The  sea  wastes  all :  but  let  me  live  my 

life. 
"  O,  who  would  love  .-*    I  woo'd   a 

woman  once,  [wind, 

But  she  was  sharper  than  an  eastern 
And  all  my  heart  turn'd  from  her,  as  a 

thorn 
Turns  from  the  sea:  but  let  me  live 

my  life." 
He  sang  his  song,  and  I  replied  with 

mine : 
f  found  it  in  a  volume,  all  of  songs, 
Knock'd   down   to   me,  when    old    Sir 

Robert's  pride. 
His  books — the  more   the   pity,  so   I 

said — 


Came  to  the  hammer  here  in  March— 

and  this — 
I  set  the  words,  and  added  names  I 

knew. 
•'  Sleep,   Ellen   Aubrey,    sleep,   and 

dream  of  me : 
Sleep,  Ellen,  folded  in  thy  sister's  arm, 
And  sleeping,  haply  dream  her  arm  is 

mine.  |arm«, 

"  Sleep,    Ellen,   folded    in    Emilia's 

Emilia,  fairer  than  all  else  but  thou, 

For  thou  art  fairer  than  all  else  that  is. 

"  Sleep,  breathing  health  and  peace 

upon  her  breast  : 
Sleep,  breathing  love  and  trust  against 

her  lip : 
I  go  to-night:  I  come  to-morrow  morn. 
"  I  go,  but  I  return :  I  would  I  were 
The  pilot  of    the  darkness    and    the 

dream. 
Sleep,  Ellen  Aubrey,  love,  and  dream 

of  me  " 
So  sang  we  each  to  either,  Francis 

Hale,  [bay, 

The  farmer's  son  who  lived  across  the 
My  friend ;  and  I,  that  having  where- 
withal, 
And  in  the  fallow  leisure  of  my  life, 
Did  what  I  would  :  but  ere  the  night  we 

rose 
And  saunter'd  home  beneath  a  moon, 

that,  just 
In  crescent,  dimly  rain'd  about  the  leaf 
Twilights  of  airy  silver,  till  we  reach'd 
The  limit  of  the  hills ;  and  as  we  sank 
From  rock  to  rock  upon  the  glooming 

quay. 
The    town    was    hush'd    beneath   us: 

lower  down 
The  bay  was  oily-calm;  the   harbor- 
buoy 
With  one  green  sparkle  ever  and  anon 
Dipt   by  itself,  and  we   were   glad  at 

heart. 


WALKING  TO  TFIE  MAIL. 

John.  I'm  glad  I  walk'd.    How  fresh 
the  meadows  look 
Above  the  river,  and  but  a  montii  ago, 


74 


WALKIN-G  TO  THE  MAIL, 


The  whole  hillside  was  redder  than  a 

fox. 
Is   yon   plantation  where  this   by-way 

joins 
The  turnpike  ? 

James.  Yes. 

John.  And  when  does  this  come  by  ? 
James.  The  mail  ?  At  one  o'clock. 
John.  What  is  it  now  ? 

James    A  quarter  to. 
John.        Whose  house  is  that  I  see? 
No,  not  the  County  Member's  with  the 
vane:  [half 

Up  higher  with  the  yewtree  by  it,  and 
A  score  of  gables 

James     That?   Sir  Edward  Head's: 

But  he's  abroad:   the  place  is  to  be 

sold., 

John.     O,  his.     He  was  not  broken. 

James.  No,  sir,  he, 

Vex'd  with  a  morbid  devil  in  his  blood 

That  veil'd  the   world  with  jaundice, 

hid  his  face 
From  all  men,  and  commercing  with 

himself, 
He  lost  the  sense  that  handles  daily 

life— 
That  keeps  us  all   in  order  more   or 
less —  [change. 

And  sick  of  home  went  overseas  for 
John.  And  whither  ? 
James.  Nay,  who  knows?  he's  here 
and  there. 
But  let  him  go ;  his  devil  goes  with  him, 
As  well    as    with    his    tenant,  Jocky 
Dawes. 
John.  What's  that  ? 
James.   You  saw  the  man — on  Mon- 
day, was  it  ? — 
There  by  the  humpback'd  willow ;  half 

stands  up 
And  bristles ;  half  has  fall'n  and  made 

a  bridge  ; 
And  there  he  caught  the  younker  tick- 
ling trout — 
Caught  \\\  flagrante — what's  the  Latin 

word  ? — 
Delicto:  but  his  house,  for  so  they  say. 
Was  haunted  with  a  jolly  ghost,  that 

shook 
The  curtains,  whined  in  lobbies,  tapt  at 
doors, 


And  rummaged  like  a  rat :  no  servant 

stay'd : 
The  farmer  vext  packs  up  his  beds  and 

chairs, 
And  all  his  household  stuff  :  and  with 

his  boy  [tilt, 

Betwixt  his  knees,  his  wife  upon  the 
Sets  out,  and  meets  a  friend  who  hails 

him.     "  What ! 
You're  flitting  ! "  "  Yes,  we're  flitting,'* 

says  the  ghost, 
(For  they  had  pack'd  the  thing  among 

the  beds,) 
"  O  well,"  says  he,  "you  flitting  with  us 

too —  [again." 

Jack,  turn  the  horses'  heads  and  home 

John.     He  left  his  wife  behind  \  for 

so  I  heard. 
James.     He  left  her,  yes.     I  met  my 

lady  once : 
A  woman  like  a  butt,  and  harsh  as 

crabs. 
John.     O  yet  but  I  remember,  ten 

years  back — 
'Tis  now  at  least  ten  years — and  then 

she  was —  [thing  i 

You   could  not   light  upon  a  sweeter 
A  body  slight  and  round,  and  like  a 

pear  [foot 

In   growing,   modest  eyes,   a   hand,   a 
Lessening   in   perfect   cadence,   and   a 

skin 
As  clean  and  white  as  privet  when  it 

flowers. 
James.  Ay,  ay,  the  blossom  fades,  and 

they  that  loved  [dog. 

At  first  like  dove  and  dove  were  cat  and 
She  was  the  daughter  of  a  cottager, 
Out    of    her    sphere.     What   betwixt 

shame  and  pride, 
New  things  and  old,  himself  and  her, 

she  sour'd 
To  what  she  is :   a  nature  never  kind  ! 
Like   men,  like   manners :  like   breeds 

like,  they  say. 
Kind  nature  is  the  best :  those  manners 

next 
That  fit  us  like  a  nature  second-hand ; 
Which  are  indeed  the  manners  of  the 

great. 
John.    But  I  had  heard  it  was  this 

bill  that  past, 


EDWIN  MORRIS ;  OR,  THE  LAKE. 


75 


And  fear  of  change  at  home,  that  drove 

him  hence. 
James.     That  was  the  last  drop  in 

his  cup  of  gall. 
I  once  was  near  him,  when  his  bailiff 

brought 
A   Chartist  pike.      You  should   have 

seen  him  wince 
As  from  a  venomous  thing :  he  thought 

himself 
A  mark  for  all,  and  shudder'd,  lest  a 

cry 
Should  break  his  sleep  by  night,  and 

his  nice  eyes 
Should  see  the  raw  mechanic's  bloody 

thumbs 
Sweat  on  his  blazon'd  chairs  ;  but,  sir, 

you  know 
That  these  two  parties  still  divide  the 

world — 
Of  those  that  want,  and  those  that  have : 

and  still 
The  same  old  sore  breaks  out  from  age 

to  age 
With  much  the  same  result.     Now  I 

myself, 
A  Tory  to  the  quick,  was  as  a  boy 
Destructive,  when  I   had  not  what  I 

would. 
I   was    at    school — a    college    in    the 

South  : 
There  lived  a  fiayflint  near ;  we  stole 

his  fruit. 
His  hens,  his  eggs  ;  but  there  was  law 

for  us : 
We  paid  in  person.     He  had  a  sow, 

sir.     She,  [tent, 

With  meditative  grunts  of  much  con- 
Lay  great  with  pig,  wallowing  in  sun 

and  mud. 
By  night  we  dragged  her  to  the  college 

tower 
From  her  warm  bed,  and  up  the  corkr 

screw  stair 
With  litand  and    rope  we    haled  the 

groaning  sow. 
And  on  the  leads  we  kept  her  till  she 

pigg'd.  [sow, 

Large  range  of  prospect  had  the  mother 
And  but  for  daily  loss  of  one  she  loved, 
As  one  by  one  we  took  them— but  for 

this— 


As  never  sow  was  higher  in  this  world- 
Might  have  been  happy:  but  what  lot 

is  pure  ? 
We   took  them  all,  till   she  was   left 

alone 
Upon  her  tower,  the  Niobe  of  swine, 
And  so  return'd  unfarrow'd  to  her  sty. 
yohn.     They  found  you  out  } 
James.  Not  thev. 

John.  Well— after  all— 

What  know  we  of  the  secret  of  a  man? 
His  nerves  were  wrong.    What  ails  us, 

who  are  sound, 
That  we  should  mimic  this  raw  fool  the 

world, 
Which  charts  us  all  in  its  coarse  blacks 

or  whites. 
As  ruthless  as  a  baby  with  a  worm, 
As  cruel  as  a  school-boy  ere  he  grows 
To   Pity — more    from  ignorance   than 

will. 
But  put  your  best  foot  forward,  or  I 

fear 
That  we  shall  miss  the  mail  :  and  here 

it  comes 
With  five  at  top  :  as  quaint  a  four-in- 
hand 
As  you  shall  see — three  piebalds  and  a 

roan. 


EDWIN  MORRIS ;   OR,  THE 
LAKE. 

O  ME,  my  pleasant  rambles  by  the 

lake. 
My  sweet,  wild,  fresh  three-quarters  of 

a  year, 
My  one  Oasis  in  the  dust  and  drouth 
Of  city  life  -,  I  was  a  sketcher  then  : 
See  here,  my  doing :  curves  of  moun« 

tain,  bridge. 
Boat,  island,  ruins  of  a  castle,  built 
When  men  knew  how  to  build,  upon  a 

rock, 
With  turrets  lichen-gilded  like  a  rock  : 
And   here,   new-comers   in  an  ancient 

hold,  [aires, 

New-comers  from  the  Mersey,  million- 
Here  lived  the  Hills — a  Tudor-chim- 
neyed bulk 
Of  mellow  brickwork    on  an  isle  of 

bowers. 


75 


EDWIN  MORRIS;  OR,  THE  LAKE, 


O  me,  my  pleasant  rambles  by  the 

lake 
With  Edwin  Morris  and  with  Edward 

Bull 
The   curate ;   he   was  fatter  than  his 

cure. 

But  Edwin  Morris,  he  that  knew  the 

names, 
Long  learned  names  of  agaric,  moss, 

and  fern, 
Who  forged  a  thousand  theories  of  the 

rocks, 
Who  taught  me  how  to  skate,  to  row, 

to  swim, 
Who  read  me  rhymes  elaborately  good, 
His  own — I   call'd    him  Crichton,  for 

he  seem'd 
All-perfect,  finish'd  to  the  finger  nail. 

And  once  I  ask'd   him  of  his  early 

life, 
And  his  first  passion  j  and  he  answer'd 

me  ; 
And  well  his  words  became  him  :  was 

he  not 
A  full-cell'd  honeycomb  of  eloquence 
Stored  from  all  flowers  ?     Poet-like  he 

spoke. 

"  My  love  for  nature  is  as  old  as  I ; 
But  thirty  moons,  one   honeymoon  to 

that, 
And  three    rich  sennights    more,   my 

love  for  her. 
My  love  for  Nature  and  my  love  for  her, 
Of  different  ages,  like  twin-sisters  grew. 
Twin-sisters  differently  beautiful. 
To  some  full  music  rose  and  sank  the 

sun, 
A.nd  some  full  music  seem'd  to  move 

and  change 
With    all  the    varied  changes  of    the 

dark. 
And  either  twilight  and    the  day  be- 
tween ; 
For  daily  hope  fulfill'd,  to  rise  again 
Revolving  toward  fulfilment,  made  it 

sweet 
To  walk,  to  sit.  to  sleep,  to  breathe,  to 

wake." 


Or  this  or  something  like   to  this  he 
spoke. 
Then  said  the  fat-faced  curate,  Edward 
Bull: 

"  I  take  it,  God  made  the  woman  for 

the  man. 
And  for  the  good  and  increase  of  the 

world. 
A  pretty  face  is  well,  and  this  is  well, 
To  have  a  dame  indoors,  that  trims  us 

up. 
And  keeps  us  tight ;  but  these  unreal 

ways 
Seem  iDut  the   theme  of  writers,  and 

indeed 
Worn  threadbare.  Man  is  made  of  solid 

stuff, 
I  say,  God  made   the   woman  for  the 

man, 
And  for  the  good  and  increase  of  the 

world. 

"  Parson,"    said  I,  '*  you    pitch  the 

pipe  to  a  low  : 
But   I   have  sudden  touches,  and  can 

run 
My  faith  beyond  my  practice  into  his: 
Tho'  if,  in  dancing  after  Letty  Hill, 
I  do  not  hear  the  bells  upon  my  cap, 
I  scarce  hear  other  music  :  yet  say  on 
What  should  one  give  to  light  on  such 

a  dream  .-* " 
I  ask'd  him  half-sardonically. 

"  Give  ? 
Give  all  thou  art,"  he  answer'd,  and  a 

light 
Of  laughter  dimpled    in  his   swarthy 

cheek ; 
"  I  would  have  hid  her  needle  in  my 

heart, 
To  save  her  little  finger  from  a  scratch 
No  deeper  than  the  skin  :  my  ears  could 

hear 
Her  lightest  breaths  :  her  least  remark 

was  worth 
The  experience  of  the  wise.     I  went 

and  came  ; 
Her  voice  fled  always  thro'  the  sum* 

mer  land ; 
I  spoke  her  name  alone.     Thrice-happj 

daysl 


EDWIN  MORRIS;  OR,   THE  LAKE. 


71 


The   flower  o£    each,  those  moments 

when  we  met, 
The  crown  of  all,  we  met  to  part  no 

more." 

Were  not  his  words  delicious,  I  a 
beast 

To  take  them  as  I  did  ?  but  something 
jarr'd; 

Whether  he  spoke  too  largely ;  that 
there  seem'd 

A  touch  of  something  false,  some  self- 
conceit, 

Or  over-smoothness  :  howsoe'er  it  was. 

He  scarcely  hit  my  humor,  and  I  said  : 

"  Friend  Edwin,  do  not  think  your- 
self alone  [me, 
Of  all  men  happy.  Shall  not  Love  to 
As  in  the  Latin  song  I  learnt  at  school, 
Sneeze  out  a  full  God-bless-you  right 
and  left  ?  [vein  : 
But  you  can  talk  :  yours  is  a  kindly 
I   have,  I   think, — Heaven   knows — as 

much  within  ; 
Have,  or  should  have,  but  for  a  thought 

or  two, 
That  like  a  purple  beech  among  the 

greens 
Looks  out  of  place  :  'tis  from  no  want 

in  her : 
It  is  my  shyness,  or  my  self-distrust, 
Or  something  of  a  wayward  modern 

mind 
Dissecting  passion.     Time  will  set  me 
right." 

So  spoke  I  knowing  not  the  things 

Shat  were. 
;\,?i  said  the  fat-faced  curate,  Edward 
Bull: 

**  God  made  the  woman  for  the  use  of 

man, 
And  for  the  good  and  increase  of  the 

world." 
And  I  and  Edwin  laugh'd ;  and  now  we 

paused 
About  the   windings  of  the  marge  to 

hear 
The  soft  wind  blowing  over  meadowy 

holms  [left 

And  aiders,  garden-isles ;  and  now  we 


The  clerk  behind  us,  I  and  he,  and  ran 
By  ripply  shallows  of  the  lisping  lake.. 
Delighted  with  the  freshness  and  the 
sound. 

But,  when  the  bracken  rusted  on  their 

crags, 
My  suit  had  wither'd,  nipt  to  death  b) 

him 
That  was  a  God,  and  is  a  lawyes  .. 

clerk, 
The  rentroll  Cupid  of  our  rainy  isles. 
'Tis  true,  we  met ;  one  hour  I  had,  no 

more :  [si.^f, 

She  sent  a  note,  the  seal  an  E/fc  vous 
The  close  '*  Your  Letty,  only  yours  "  ; 

and  this 
Thrice  underscored.     The  friendly  mist 

of  morn 
Clung  to  the  lake,  I  bloated  over,  ran 
My  craft  aground,  and  heard  with  beat- 
ing heart 
The  vSweet-Gale  rustle  round  the  shelv« 

ing  keel  : 
And  out  I  stept,  and  up  I  crept ;  she 

moved, 
Like    Proserpine    in    Enna,  gathering 

flowers  : 
Then  low  and  swee't  I  whistled  thrice  j 

and  she. 
She  turn'd,  we  closed,  we  kiss'd,  swo* 

faith,  I  breathed 
In  some  new  planet  ;  a  silent  coui! 

stole  [frietl, 

Upon  us  and  departed  :  "  Leave,"  she 
"  O     leave    me ! "     "  Never,    dearest, 

never  :  here 
I  brave  the  worst " :  and  while  we  stood 

like  fools 
Embracing,  all  at  once  a  score  of  pugs 
And  poodles  yell'd  within,  and  out  they 

came 
Trustees     and     Aunts     and     Uncles. 

"What,  with  him!" 
"  Go "    (shrill'd     the     cottonspinning 

chorus)  "  him  !  " 
I  choked.     Again    they  shriek'd    the 

burthen  "  Him  !  " 
Again   with   hands   of    wild   rejectior 

'■'  Go  !— 
Girl,  get  you  in  !  "     She  went— and  in 

one  month 


78 


ST.  SIMEON  STYLITES. 


They  wedded  her   to  sixty  thousand 

pounds, 
To  lands  in  Kent    and  messuages  in 

York, 
And  slight  Sir  Robert  with  his  watery 

smile 
And  educated  whisker.     But  for  me, 
They  set  an  ancient  creditor  to  work : 
It  seems  I  broke  a  close  with  force  and 

arms :  [king 

There  came  a  mystic  token  from  the 
To  greet  the  sheriff,  needless  courtesy  ! 
I  read,   and  fled   by  night,  and  flying 

turn'd  : 
Her  taper  glimmer'd  in  the  lake  below : 
I  turn'd  once  more,  close-button'd  to 

the  storm ; 
So  left  the  place,  left  Edwin,  nor  have 

seen 
Him  since,  nor  heard  of  her,  nor  cared 

to  hear.  [ago 

Nor  cared  to  hear  ?  perhaps  :  yet  long 

I  have  pardon'd  little  Letty :  not  indeed. 

It  may  be,  for  her  own  dear  sake  but 

this, 
She  seems  a  part  of  those  fresh   days 

to  me; 
For  in  the  dust  and  drouth  of  London 

life  [lake, 

She  moves  among  my  visions  of  the 
While  the  prime  swallow  dips  his  wing, 

or  then 
While  the  gold-lily  blows,  and  overhead 
The  light  cloud  smoulders  on  the  sum- 
mer crag. 


ST.  SIMEON  STYLITES. 

Altho.  I  be  the  basest  of  mankind, 

From  scalp  to  sole  one  slough  and 
crust  of  sin, 

Unfit  for  earth,  unfit  for  heaven,  scarce 
meet 

For  troops  of  devils,  mad  with  blas- 
phemy, 

I  will  not  cease  to  grasp  the  hope  I 
hold 

Of  saintdom,  and  to  clamor,  mourn,  and 
sob. 

Battering  the  gates  of  heaven  with 
Storms  of  prayer, 


Have  mercy,  Lord,  and  take  away  my 

sin.  [God, 

Let  this  avail,  just  dreadful,  mighty 

This  not  be  all  in  vain,  that  thrice  ten 

years. 
Thrice     multiplied     by    superhuman 

pangs, 
In  hungers   and   in  thirsts,  fevers  and 

cold. 
In    coughs,   aches,   stitches,    ulcerous 

throes  and  cramps, 
A  sign  betwixt  the  meadow  and  the 

cloud, 
Patient  on  this  tall  pillar  I  have  borne 
Rain,  wind,  frost,  heat,  hail,  damp,  and 

sleet,  and  snow  ; 
And  I  had  hoped  that  ere  this  period 

closed 
Thou  wouldst  have  caught  me  up  into 

thy  rest. 
Denying  not  these  weather-beaten  limbs 
The  meed  of  saints,  the  white  robe  and 

the  palm.  [breathe, 

O  take  the  meaning,  Lord  :  I  do  not 

Not  whisper  any  murmur  of  complaint, 

Pain  hcap'd  ten-hundred-fold  to  this, 

were  still 
Less  burthen,  by  ten-hundred-fold,  to 

bear, 
Than  were  those  lead-like  tons  of  sin, 

that  crush'd 
My  spirit  flat  before  thee. 

O  Lord,  Lord, 
Thou  knowest  I  bore  this  better  at  the 

first. 
For  I  was  strong  and  hale  of  body 

then; 
And  tho'  my  teeth,  which  now  are  dropt 

away, 
Would  chatter  with  the  cold,  and  all 

my  beard 
Was  tagg'd    with    icy  fringes    in    the 

moon, 
I  drowh'd  the  whoopings  of  the  owl 

with  sound 
Of  pious  hyms  and  psalms,  and  some- 
times saw  [sang. 
An  angel  stand  and  watch  me,  as   I 
Now  am  I  feeble  grown  ;  my  end  draws 

nigh  ; 
I  hope  my  end  draws  nigh  ;  half-deai 

lam, 


.97:  SIMEON  STYLITES. 


79 


5o  that  I  scarce  can  hear  the  people 

hum 
fVbout  the  column's  base,  and  almost 

blind, 
jVnd  scarce  can  recognize  the  fields  I 

know ; 
And  both  my  thighs  are   rotted  with 

the  dew  ; 
Yet  cease  I  not  to  clamor  and  to  cry, 
While  my  stiff  spine  can  hold  my  weary 

head, 
Till  all  my  limbs  drop  piecemeal  from 

the  stone, 
Have  mercy,  mercy  :  take  away  my  sin. 
O  Jesus,  if  thou   wilt  not  save  my 

soul. 
Who  may  be  saved  ?  who  is  it  may  be 

saved  ? 
Who  may  be   made   a  saint,  if   I  fail 

here  ? 
Show  me  the  man  hath  suffer'd  more 

than  I. 
For  did  not  all  thy  martyrs  die   one 

death  ?  [fied, 

For  either  they  were  stoned,  or  cruci- 
Or  burn'd  in  fire,  or  boil'd  in  oil,  or 

sawn 
In  twain  beneath  the  ribs ;  but  I  die 

here 
To-day,  and  whole  years  long,  a  life  of 

death.  [way 

Bear  witness,  if  I  could  have  found  a 
(And  heedfully  I  sifted  all  my  thought) 
More    slowly-painful   to    subdue    this 

home 
Of  sin,  my  flesh,  which  I  despise  and 

hate, 
I  had  not  stinted  practice,  O  my  God. 

For  not  alone  this  pillar-punishment, 
Not  this  alone  I  bore  :  but  while  I  lived 
In  the  white  convent  down  the  valley 

there, 
For  many  weeks  about  my  loins  I  wore 
The  rope  that  haled  the  buckets  from 

the  well, 
Twisted  as  tight  as  I  could  knot  the 

noose ; 
And  spake  not  of  it  to  a  single  soul. 
Until  the  ulcer,  eating  thro'  my  skin, 
Betray'd  my  secret  penance,  so  that  all 
My  brethren  marvell'd  greatly.     More 

than  this 


I  bore,  whereof,  O  God,  thoa  knowest 

all. 
Three  winters,  that  my  soul  might 

grow  to  thee, 
I  lived  up  there  on  yonder  mountain 

side. 
My  right  leg  chain'd  into  the  crag,  I  lay 
Pent   in   a   roofless    close    of    ragged 

stones  ;  [mist,  and  twice 

Inswathed    sometimes    in    wandering 
Black'd  with  thy  branding  thunder,  and 

sometimes  [not. 

Sucking  the  damps  for  drink,  and  eating 
Except  the  spare  chance-gift  of  those 

that  came 
To  touch  my  body  and  be  heal'd,  and 

live  : 
And    they  say   then    that    I    work'd 

miracles. 
Whereof    my  fame    is  loud   amongst 

mankind. 
Cured      lameness,      palsies,     cancers. 

Thou,  O  God, 
Knowest  alone  whether  this  was  or  no. 
Have  mercy,  mercy  ;  cover  all  my  sin. 
Then,  that  I  might  be  more  alone 

with  thee. 
Three  years  I  lived  upon  a  pillar,  high 
Six  cubits,  and  three  years  on  one  of 

twelve ; 
And  twice  three  years  I  crouch'd  on 

one  that  rose 
Twenty  by  measure  ;  last  of  all,  I  grew, 
Twice  ten  long  weary,  weary  years  to 

this. 
That  numbers  forty  cubits  from  the  soil. 
I  think  that  I  have  borne  as  much  as 

this— 
Or  else  I  dream — and  for  so  long  a 

time, 
If  I  may  measure  time  b}*yon  slow  light, 
And  this  high  dial,  which  my  sorrow 

crowns — 
So  much — even  so. 

And  yet  I  know  not  well, 
For  that  the  evil  ones  come  here,  and 


say, 


hast 


"  Fall   down,   O    Simeon  :    thou 

suffer'd  long 
For  ages  and  for  ages !  "  then  they  prate 
Of  penances  I  cannot  have  gone  thro'. 
Perplexing  me  with  lies ;  and  oft  I  fall, 


80 


ST.  SI  ME  ON  SrVLlTES, 


Maybe  for  months,  in  such  blind  lethar- 
gies, 
That    Heaven,  and  Earth,  and   Time 

are  choked. 

But  yet 
Bethink  thee,  Lord,  while  thou  and  all 

the  saints 
Enjoy  themselves  in  Heaven,  and  men 

on  earth 
House   in  the    shade   of   comfortable 

roofs, 
Sit  with  their  wives  by  fires,  eat  whole- 
some food, 
And  wear    warm    clothes,   and    even 

beasts  have  stalls, 
I  'tween  the  spring  and  downfall  of  the 

light, 
Bown   down    one    thousand   and   two 

hundred  times. 
To  Christ,   the    Virgin    Mother,  and 

the  Saints ; 
Or  in  the  night,  after  a  little  sleep, 
I  wake  :  the  chill  stars  sparkle  ;  I  am 

wet 
With  drenching  dews,   or    stiff  with 

crackling  frost, 
I  wear  an  undress'd  goatskin  on  my 

back  ; 
A  grazmg  iron  collar  grinds  my  neck  ; 
And  in  my  weak,  lean  arms  I  lift  the 

cross. 
And  strive  and  wrestle  with  thee  till  I 

die  : 
O  mercy,  mercy  !  wash  away  my  sin. 
O  Lord,  thou  knowest  what  a  ipan  I 

am  ; 
A  sinful  man,  conceived  and  born  in 

sin : 
*Tis  their  own  doing;  this  is  none  of 

mine ;  [this. 

Lay  it  not  to  me.     Am  I  to  blame  for 
That  here  come  those  that  worship  me  ? 

Ha!  ha! 
They    think    that    I    am    somewhat. 

What  am  I  ? 
The  silly  people  take  me  for  a  saint. 
And  bring  me  offerings  of   fruit  and 

flowers  : 
And  I,  in  truth  (thou  wilt  bear  witness 

here) 
Have  all  in  all  endured  as  much,  and 

more 


Than  many  just  and  holy  men,  whose 

names 
Are  register'd  and  calendar'd  for  saints, 
Good  people,  you  do  ill  to  kneel  to 

me. 
What  is  it  I  can  have  done  to  merit 

this ! 
I  am  a  sinner  v'ler  than  you  all. 
It   may    be     I    have    wrought     some 

miracles, 
And  cured  some  halt  and  maim'd  ;  but 

what  of  that  ? 
It  may  be,  no   one,  even  among  the 

saints, 
May  match  his  pains  with  mine  ;  but 

what  of  that  ? 
Yet  do  not  rise  :  for  you  may  look  on 

me. 
And  in  your  looking  you  may  kneel  to 

God. 
Speak !  is   there    any   of  you   halt   or 

maim'd .'' 
I  think  you  know  I  have  some  power 

with  Heaven 
From  my  long  penance  :  let  him  speak 

his  wish. 
Yes,  I   can  heal   him      Power  goes 

forth  from  me. 
They  say  that   they   are  heal'd      Ah, 

hark !  they  shout 
"  St.  Simeon  Stylites."     Whv,  if  so, 
God  reaps  a  harvest  in  me      O  my  soul, 
God  reaps  a  harvest  in  thee.     If  this  be 
Can  I  work  miracles  and  not  be  saved.'* 
This  is  not  told  of  any.    They  were 

saints. 
It  cannot  be  but  that  I  shall  be  saved  , 
Yea,   crown'd   a    saint      They    shout, 

"  Behold  a  saint ! " 
And  lower  voices  saint  me  from  above. 
Courage,     St.      Simeon  !      This     dull 

chrysalis 
Cracks  into  shining  wings,  and  hope  ere 

death 
Spreads  more  and  more  and  more,  that 

God  hath  now 
Sponged  and  made  blank  of  crimeful 

record  all 
My  mortal  archives. 

O  my  sons,  my  sons, 
I,  Simeon  of  the  i^illar,  by  surname 
Stylites,  among  men  ,  I,  Simeon, 


ST.  SIMEON  STYLTTES. 


8l 


TJie  watcher  on  the  column  till  the 

end ; 
I,  Simeon,  whose  brain   the  sunshine 

bakes ; 
I,  whose  bald  brows   in  silent  hours 

become 
Unnaturally  hoar  with  rime,  do  now 
From  my  high  nest   of  penance  here 

proclaim 
That  Pontius  and  Iscariot  by  my  side 
Show'd  like  fair  seraphs.     On  the  coals 

Hay, 
A  vessel  full  of  sin  :  all  hell  beneath 
Made  me  boil  over.     Devils  pluck'd  my 

sleeve  , 
Abaddon  and  Asmodeus  caught  at  me. 
I   smote   them   with   the    cross;    they 

swarm 'd  again. 
In  bed  like  monstrous  apes  they  crush'd 

my  chest : 
They  flapp'd  my  light  out  as  I  read  :  I 

saw  [book : 

Their  faces  grow  between  me  and  my 
With  colt-like  whinny  and  with  hoggish 

whine 
They  burst  my  prayer.     Yet  this  way 

was  left. 
And    by    this  way   I    'scaped    them. 

Mortify 
Your  flesh,  like  me,  with  scourges  and 
t         with  thorns  ; 
Smite,  shrink  not,  spare  not.     If  it  may 

be,  fast 
Whole  Lents,  and  pray.    I  hardly,  with 

slow  steps, 
With  slow,  faint  steps,  and  much  ex- 
ceeding pain. 
Have  scrambled  past  those  pits  of  fire, 

that  still 
Sing  in  mine   ears.     But  yield  not  me 

the  praise  : 
God  only  thro'  his  bounty  hath  thought 

fit,  [world, 

Among  the  powers  and  princes  of  this 
To  make  me  an  example  to  mankind, 
Which  few  can  reach  to.     Yet  I  do  not 

say 
But  that  a  time  may  come — yea,  even 

now. 
Now,  now,   his    footsteps    smite    the 

threshold  stairs 
Of  life — I  say,  that  time  is  at  the  doors 


When  you  may  worship  me  without  re^ 

p roach ; 
For  I  will  leave  my  relics  in  your  land, 
And  you  may  carve  a  shrine  about  my 

dust, 
And  burn  a  fragrant  lamp  before  my 

bones. 
When  I  am  gather'd  to  the  glorious 

saints. 
While   I   spake     then,    a    sting     of 

shrewdest  pain 
Ran  shrivelling  thro'  me,  and  a  clo  id' 

like  change, 
In  passing,  with  a  grosser  film  made 

thick 
These  heavy,   horny  eyes.     The  end  ! 

the  end  ! 
Surely  the  end  !  What's  here  ?  a  shape, 

a  shape, 
A  flash  of  light.     Is  that  the  angel  there 
That  holds  a  crown }     Come,  blessed 

brother,  come. 
I  know  thy  glittering   face.    I  waited 

long; 
My  btows  are   ready.     What !  deny  it 

now? 
Nay,  draw,  draw,  draw  nigh.  So  I  clutch 

it.     Christ ! 
*Tis  gone  :  'tis  here  again  :  the  crown ! 

the  crown  ! 
So  now  'tis  fitted  on  and  grows  to  me, 
And  from  it  melt  the  dews  of  Paradise, 
Sweet  1    sweet !    spikenard,  and  balm, 

and  frankincense. 
Ah  !  let  me  not  be  fool'd,  sweet  saints  : 

I  trust 
That  I  am  whole,  and  clean,  and  meet 

for  Heaven.  [God, 

Speak,  if  there  be  a  priest,  a  man  of 

Among  you  there,  and  let  him  presently 

Approach,  and  lean  a  ladder  on  the 

shaft. 
And  climbing  up  into  my  airy  home. 
Deliver  me  the  blessed  sacrament ; 
For  by  the  warning  of  the  Holy  Ghost, 
I  prophesy  that  I  shall  die  to-night, 
A  quarter  before  twelve. 

But  thou,  O  Lord, 
Aid  all  this  foolish  people ;  let  them 

take 
Example,  pattern ;   lead  them  to  thj 

light.  • 


82 


THE  TALKING  OAK. 


THE  TALKING  OAK. 


Once  more  the  gate  behind  me  falls ; 

Once  more  before  my  face 
I  see  the  moulcier'd  Abbey-walls, 

That  stand  within  the  chace. 

Beyond  the  lodge  the  city  lies, 

Beneath  its  drift  of  smoke ; 
And  ah  !  with  what  delighted  eyes 

I  turn  to  yonder  oak. 

For  when  my  passion  first  began. 
Ere  that,  which  in  me  burn'd, 

The  love,  that  makes  me  thrice  a  man, 
Could  hope  itself  return'd  ; 

To  yonder  oak  within  the  field 

I  spoke  without  restraint, 
And  with  a  larger  faith  appealed 

Than  Papist  unto  Saint. 

For  oft  I  talk'd  with  him  apart, 
And  told  him  of  my  choice, 

Until  he  plagiarized  a  heart. 
And  answer'd  with  a  voice. 

Tho'  what  he  whisper'd,  under  Heaven 
None  else  could  understand  ; 

I  found  him  garrulously  given, 
A  babbler  in  the  land. 

But  since  I  heard  him  make  reply 

Is  many  a  weary  hour  ; 
'Twere  well  to  question  him,  and  try 

If  yet  he  keeps  the  power. 

Hail,  hidden  to  the  knees  in  fern. 
Broad  Oak  of  Sumner-chace, 

Whose  topmost  branches  can  discern 
The  roofs  of  Sumner-place  ! 

Say  thou,  whereon  I  carved  her  name, 

if  ever  maid  or  spouse, 
As  fair  as  my  Olivia,  came 

To  rest  beneath  thy  boughs. — 

'  O  Walter,  I  have  shelter'd  here 

Whatever  maiden  grace 
The  good  old  Summers,  year  by  year, 

Made  ripe  in  Sumner-chace  : 

**  Old  Summers,  when  the  monk  was 
fat. 

And,  issuing  shorn  and  sleek, 
Would  twist  his  girdle  tight,  and  pat 

The  girls  upon  the  check, 


"  Ere  yet,  in  scorn  of  Peter's-pence, 
And  number'd  bead  and  shrift. 

Bluff  Harry  broke  into  the  spence. 
And  turn'd  the  cowls  adrift  : 

"  And  I  have  seen  some  score  of  those 
Fresh  faces  that  would  thrive 

When  his  man-minded  offset  rose 
To  chase  the  deer  at  five  ; 

"And  all  that  from  the   town   would 
stroll. 

Till  that  wild  wind  made  work 
In  which  the  gloomy  brewer's  soul 

Went  by  me,  like  a  stork  : 

"  The  slight  she-slips  of  loyal  blood, 
And  others,  passing  praise. 

Strait-laced,  but  all-too-full  in  bud 
For  puritanic  stays  : 

"And  I  have  shadow'd  many  a  group 

Of  beauties  that  were  born 
In  teacup-times  of  hood  and  hoop, 

Or  while  the  patch  was  worn  ; 

"  And,  leg  and  arm  with  love-knots  gay, 
About  me  leap'd  and  laugh'd 

The  modish  Cupid  of  the  day. 
And  shrill'd  his  tinsel  shaft. 

'*  I  swear  (and  else  may  insects  prick 
Each  leaf  into  a  gall)  j 

This  girl,  for  whom  your  heart  is  sick, 
Is  three  times  worth  them  all ; 

"  For  those  and  theirs,  by  Nature's  law, 

Have  faded  long  ago ; 
But  in  these  latter  springs  I  saw 

Your  own  Olivia  blow, 

"  From  when  she  gamboll'd   on    the 
greens, 

A  baby-germ,  to  when 
The  maiden  blossoms  of  her  teens 

Could  number  five  from  ten. 

"  I  swear,  by  leaf,  and  wind,  and  rain, 
(And  hear  me  with  thine  ears,) 

That,  tho'  I  circle  in  the  grain 
Five  hundred  rings  of  years — 

"  Yet,  since  I  first  could  cast  a  shade, 

Did  never  creature  pass 
So  slightly,  musically  made, 

So  light  upon  the  grass : 


THE  TALKING  OAK. 


83 


*  For  as  to  fairies,  that  will  flit 
To  make  the  greensward  fresh, 

I  hold  them  exquisitely  knit, 
But  far  too  spare  of  flesh." 

O,  hide  thy  knotted  knees  in  fern, 

And  overlook  the  chace  ; 
And  from  thy  topmost  branch  discern 

The  roofs  of  Sumner-plaee. 

But  thou,  whereon  I  carved  her  name, 
That  oft  has  heard  my  vows. 

Declare  when  last  Olivia  came 
To  sport  beneath  thy  boughs. 

"  O  yesterday,  you  know,  the  fair 

Was  holden  at  the  town : 
Her  father  left  his  good  arm-chair, 

And  rode  his  hunter  down. 

*•  And  with  him  Albert  came  on  his, 

I  look'd  at  him  with  joy: 
As  cowslip  unto  oxlip  is, 

So  seems  she  to  the  boy. 

"  An    hour    had    past  —  and,    sitting 
straight 

Within  the  low-wheel'd  chaise. 
Her  mother  trundled  to  the  gate 

Behind  the  dappled  grays. 

"  But,  as  for  her,  she  stay'd  at  home, 

And  on  the  roof  she  went, 
And  down  the  way  you  use  to  come 

She  look'd  with  discontent. 

"  She  left  the  novel  half-uncut 

Upon  the  rosewood  shelf; 
She  left  the  new  piano  shut : 

She  could  not  please  herself. 

"  Then  ran  she,  gamesome  as  the  colt. 

And  livelier  than  a  lark 
She  sent  her  voice  thro'  all  the  holt 

Before  her,  and  the  park 

**  A  light  wind  chased  her  on  the  wing, 
And  in  the  chase  grew  wild. 

As  close  as  might  be  would  he  cling 
About  the  darling  child : 

"  But  light  as  any  wind  that  blows 

So  fleetly  did  she  stir. 
The  flower,  she  touch'd  on,  dipt  and 
rose. 

And  turn'd  to  look  at  her. 


"  And  here  she  came,  and  round  me 
play'd, 

And  sang  to  me  the  whole 
Of  those  three  stanzas  that  you  made 

About  my  '  giant  bole  ' ; 

"  And  in  a  fit  of  frolic  mirth 
She  strove  to  span  my  waist ; 

Alas,  I  was  so  broad  of  girth, 
I  could  not  be  embraced. 

"  I  wish'd  myself  the  fair  young  beech 
That  here  beside  me  stands, 

That  round  me,  clasping  each  in  each. 
She  might  have  lock'd  her  hands. 

"  Yet  seem'd  the  pressure  thrice  as 

sweet 
As  woodbine's  fragile  hold, 
Or  when  I  feel  about  my  feet 
The  berried  briony  fold." 

O  muffle  round  thy  knees  with  fern. 
And  shadow  Sumner-chace ! 

Long  may  thy  topmost  branch  discern 
The  roofs  of  Sumner-place  ! 

But  tell  me,  did  she  read  the  name 

I  carved  with  many  vows 
When  last  with  throbbing  heart  I  came 

To  rest  beneath  thy  boughs  } 

*'  O  yes,  she  wander'd  round  and  round 
These  knotted  knees  of  mine, 

And  found,  and  kiss'd  the  name  she 
found, 
And  sweetly  murmur'd  thine. 

"  A  teardrop  trembled  from  its  source, 
And  down  my  surface  crept. 

My  sense  of  touch  is  something  coarse. 
But  I  believe  she  wept. 

"Then   flush'd  her    cheek    with   rosy 
light. 

She  glanced  across  the  plain  ; 
But  not  a  creature  was  in  sight : 

She  kiss'd  me  once  again. 

"  Her  kisses  were  so  close  and  kind. 
That,  trust  me  on  my  word, 

Hard  wood  I  am,  and  wrinkled  rind, 
But  yet  my  sap  was  stirr'd 


84 


THE  TALKING  OAK. 


"And  even  into  my  inmost  ring 

A  pleasure  I  discern'd, 
Like  those  blind  motions  of  the  Spring, 

That  show  the  year  is  turn'd. 

"  Thrice-happy  he  that  may  caress 
The  ringlet's  waving  balm — 

The  cushions    of    whose    touch  may 
press 
The  maiden's  tender  palm. 

**  I,  rooted  here  among  the  groves, 

But  languidly  adjust 
My  vapid  vegetable  loves 

With  anthers  and  with  dust : 

•'For  ah!  my  friend,  the   days  were 
brief 
Whereof  the  poets  talk, 
When  that,  which  breathes  within  the 
leaf. 
Could  slip  its  bark  and  walk. 

"  But  could  I,  as  in  times  foregone, 
From  spray,  and  branch,  and  stem, 

Have  suck'd  and  gather'd  into  one 
The  life  that  spreads  in  them, 

♦'  She  had  not  found  me  so  remiss ; 

But  lightly  issuing  thro', 
I  would  have  paid  her  kiss  for  kiss 

With  usury  thereto." 

O  flourish  high,  with  leafy  towers, 

And  overlook  the  lea. 
Pursue  thy  loves  among  the  bowers, 

But  leave  thou  mine  to  me, 

O  flourish,  hidden  deep  in  fern. 

Old  oak,  I  love  thee  well  ; 
A  thousand  thanks  for  what  I  learn 

And  what  remains  to  tell. 

**  'Tis  little  more  ;  the  day  was  warm ; 

At  last,  tired  out  with  pi  a)'. 
She  sank  her  head  upon  her  arm. 

And  at  my  feet  she  lay. 

"Her    eyelids    dropp'd    their    silken 
eaves. 

I  breathed  upon  her  eyes 
Thro'  all  the  summer  of  my  leaves 

A  welcome  mix'd  with  sighs. 


"  I  took  the  swarming  sound  of  life— 
The  music  from  the  town — 

The  murmurs  of  the  drum  and  fife 
And  lull'd  them  in  my  own. 

"  Sometimes  I  let  a  sunbeam  slip, 

To  light  her  shaded  eye  ; 
A  second  flutter'd  round  her  lip 

Like  a  golden  butterfly ; 

"A  third  would  glimmer  on  her  neck 
To  make  the  necklace  shine ; 

Another  slid,  a  sunny  fleck. 
From  head  to  ankle  fine. 

"  Then  close    and  dark  my    arms   I 
spread, 

And  shadow'd  all  her  rest — 
Dropt  dews  upon  her  golden  head. 

An  acorn  in  her  breast. 

"  But  in  a  pet  she  started  up, 
And  pluck'd  it  out,  and  drew 

My  little  oakling  from  the  cup. 
And  flung  him  in  the  dew. 

"  And  yet  it  was  a  graceful  gift — 

I  felt  a  pang  within 
As  when  I  see  the  woodman  lift 

His  axe  to  slay  my  kin. 

"  I  sho  k  him  down  because  he  was 

The  finest  on  the  tree. 
He  lies  beside  thee  on  the  grass. 

O  kiss  him  once  for  me. 

"  O  kiss  him  twice  and  thrice  for  me, 

That  have  no  lips  to  kiss, 
For  never  yet  was  oak  on  lea 

Shall  grow  so  fair  as  this." 

Step  deeper  yet  in  herb  and  fern, 
Look  further  thro'  the  chace. 

Spread  upward  till  thy  boughs  discen 
The  front  of  Sumner-place. 

This  fruit  of  thine  by  Love  is  blest. 

That  but  a  moment  lay 
Where  fairer  fruit  of  Love  may  rest 

Some  happy  future  day. 

I  kiss  it  twice,  I  kiss  it  thrice, 
The  warmth  it  thence  shall  win 

To  riper  life  may  magnetize 
The  baby-oak  within. 


LOVE  AND  DUTY. 


p. at  thou,  while  kingdoms  overset, 
Or  lapse  from  hand  to  hand, 

Thy  leaf  shall  never  fail,  nor  yet 
Thine  acorn  in  the  land. 

May  never  saw  dismember  thee, 

Nor  wielded  axe  disjoint, 
That  art  the  fairest-spoken  tree 

From  here  to  Lizard-point. 

O  rock  upon  thy  towery  top 
All  throats  that  gurgle  sweet ! 

All  starry  culmination  drop 
Balm-dews  to  bathe  thy  feet ! 

All  grass  of  silky  feather  grow — 
And  while  he  sinks  or  swells 

The  full  south-breeze  around  thee  blow 
The  sound  of  minster  bells. 

The  fat  earth  feed  thy  branchy  root, 

That  under  deeply  strikes  ! 
The  northern  morning  o'er  thee  shoot, 

High  up,  in  silver  spikes  1 

Nor  ever  lightning  char  thy  grain, 

But,  rolling  as  in  sleep, 
Low  thunders  bring  the  mellow  rain, 

That  makes  thee  broad  and  deep  ! 

And  hear  me  swear  a  solemn  oath. 

That  only  by  thy  side 
Will  I  to  Olive  plight  my  troth. 

And  gain  her  for  my  bride. 

And  when  my  marriage  morn  may  fall. 
She,  Dryad-like,  shall  wear 

Alternate  leaf  and  acorn-ball 
\\\  wreath  about  her  hair. 

And  I  will  work  in  prose  and  rhyme, 
And  praise  thee  more  in  both 

Than  bard  has  honor'd  beech  or  lime. 
Or  that  Thessalian  growth, 

Li  which  the  swarthy  ringdoves  sat, 
And  mystic  sentence  spoke  ; 

And  more  than  England  honors  that. 
Thy  famous  brother-oak, 

Wherein  the  younger  Chprles  abode 
Till  all  the  paths  were  dim, 

And  far  below  the  Roundhead  rode, 
And  hummed  a  surly  hymn. 


LOVE  AND   DUTY. 

Of  love  that  never  found  his  earthly 

close,  [breaking  hearts  ? 

What   sequel  ?     Streaming   eyes    and 

Or  all  the  same  as  if  he  had  not  been  ? 

Not  so.     Shall  Error  in  tht  round 

of  time  [gart  shout 

Still  father  Truth  ?  O  shall  the  brag- 
For   some  blind  glimpse   of  freedom 

work  itself  [law 

Thro'  madness,  hated  by  the  wise,  to 
System  and  empire  ?  Sin  itself  be  found 
The  cloudy  porch  oft  opening  on  the 

Sun  ? 
And  only  he,  this  wonder,  dead,  become 
Mere  highway  dust !  or  year  by  year 

alone 
Sit  brooding  in  the  ruins  of  a  life. 
Nightmare  of  youth,   the   spectre    of 

himself  1  [all. 

If  this  were  thus,  if  this,  indeed,  were 

Better   the   narrow  brain,    the  stony 

heart,  [days, 

The  staring  eye  glazed  o'er  with  sapless 
The  long  mechanic  pacings  to  and  fro, 
The  set  gray  life,  and  apathetic  end. 
But  am  I  not  the  nobler  thro'  thy  love? 
O  three  times  less  unworthy !  likewise 

thou  [thy  years. 

Art  more  thro'  Love,  and  greater  than 
The    Sun  will  run  his  orbit,  and  the 

Moon 
Her  circle.     Wait,  and  Love  himself 

will  bring  [changed  to  fruit 

The  drooping  flower  of  knowledge 
Of  wisdom.     Wait:  my  faith  is  large 

in  Time,  [(ect  end. 

And  that  which  shapes  it  to  some  per- 

Will  some  one  say,  then  why  not  ill 

for  good  ?  [that  man 

Why  took  ye  not  your  pastime  ?  To 
My  work  shall  answer,  since  I  knew 

the  right 
And  did  it ;  for  a  man  is  not  as  God, 
But  then  most  Godlike  being  most  a 

man.  [and  me — 

—'So  let  me  think  'tis  well  for  thee 
111  fated  that  I  am,  what  lot  is  mine 
Whose   foresight   preaches  peace,  my 

heart  so  slow  [nie, 

To  feel  it !    For  how  hard  it  seem'd  to 


86 


THE  GOLDEN  YEAR. 


When   eyes,    love-languid    thro'  half- 
tears,  would  dwell 
One  -earnest,   earnest    moment    upon 

mine,  [voice. 

Then  not  to  dare  to  see  !  when  thy  low 
Faltering,  would  break  its  syllables,  to 

keep  [leash. 

My  own  full-tuned, — hold  passion  in  a 
And  not  leap  forth  and  fall  about  thy 

neck,  [relief !) 

And    on    thy    bosom,      (deep-desired 
Rain  out  the  heavy  mist  of  tears,  that 

weigh'd  [soul  ! 

Upon  my  brain,  my  senses,  and  my 

For  Love  himself  took  part  against 

himself  [Love — 

To  warn  us  off,  and  Duty   loved  of 
O  this   world's   curse,  —  beloved    but 

hated — came  [and  mine. 

Like  Death  betwixt  thy  dear   embrace 
And  crying,   •'  Who  is   this  ?    behold 

thy  bride," 
She  push'd  me  from  thee. 

If  the  sense  is  hard 
To  alien  ears,  I  did  not  speak  to  these— 
No,  not  to  thee,  but  to  myself  in  thee  ; 
Hard    is  my  doom  and    thine:   thou 

knowcst  it  all.  [well  to  speak. 

Could   Love  part  thus.''  was  it  not 

To  have  spoken  once  ?     It  could  not 

but  be  well.  [things  good. 

The  slow  sweet  hours  that  bring  us  all 
The  slow  sad  hours  that  bring  us  all 

things  ill,  [the  night 

And  all  good  things  from  evil,  brought 
In  which  we  sat  together  and  alone. 
And  to  the  want,  that  hollow'd  all  the 

heart,  [eye. 

Gave  utterance  by  the  yearning  of  an 
That  burn'd  upon  its  object  thro'  such 

tears 
As  flow  but  once  a  life. 

The  trance  gave  way 
To  those   caresses,  when   a   hundred 

times  [last. 

In  that  last  kiss,  which  never  was  the 
Farewell,  like  endless  welcome,  lived 

and  died.  [the  words 

Then  follow'd  counsel,  comfort,  and 
That  make  a  man  feel  strong  in  speak- 
ing truth ;  [head 
Till  now  the  dark  was  worn,  and  over- 


The   lights  of  sunset  and  of  sr.nrise 

mix'd  [that  paused 

In  that  brief  night ;  the  summer  night, 
Among  her  stars  to  hear  us  ;  stars  that 

hung  [of  Time 

Love-charm'd  to  listen  :  all  the  wheels 
Spun  round  in  station,  but  the  end  had 

come.  [nerves  to  rush 

O  then  like  those,  who  clench  their 
Upon  their  dissolution,  we  two  rose, 
There — closmg  like  an  individual  life — 
In  one  blind  cry  of  passion  and  of  pain, 
Like  bitter  accusation  ev'n  to  death. 
Caught  up  the  whole  of  love  and  utter'd 

it, 
And  bade  adieu  forever. 

Live — yet  live — 
Shall  sharpest  pathos  blight  us,  know- 
ing all 
Life  needs  for  life  is  possible  to  will — 
Live    happy;    tend   thy    flowers;     be 

tended  by 
My  blessing  !  Should  my  Shadow  cross 

thy  thoughts  [thou 

Too  sadly  for  their  peace,  remand  it 
For  calmer  hours  to  Memory's  darkest 

hold, 
If  not  to  be  forgotten — not  at  once — 
Not  all  forgotten.     Should  it  cross  thy 

dreams,  [content, 

O  might  it  come  like  one  that  looks 
With  quiet  eyes  unfaithful  to  the  truth, 
And  point  thee  forward   to   a  distant 

light. 
Or  seem  to  lift  a  burthen  from  thy  heart 
And  leave  thee  freer,  till  thou  wake  re- 

fresh'd,  [grown 

Then  when  the  low  matin-chirp  hath 
Full   choir,   and  Morning    driv'n    her 

plough  of  pearl  [rack, 

Far  furrowing  into  light  the  mounded 
Beyond  the  fair  green  field  and  easteri' 


THE  GOLDEN  YEAR. 

Well,  you  shall  have  that  song  wliich 

Leonard  %rote : 
It  was  last  summer  on  a  tour  in  Wales : 
Old  James  was  with  mc  :  we  that  day 

had  been 


THE  GOLDEN  YEAR. 


5}' 


Up  Snowdon;  and  I  wish'd  for  Leon- 
ard there, 
And  found  him  in  Llamberis  :  then  we 
crost  [way  up 

Between  the  lakes,  and  clamber' d  half 
The  counter  side  ;  and  that  same  song 
of  his  [swore 

He   told  me  ;  for  I  banter' d  him,  and 
They  said  he  lived  shut  up  within  him- 
self, [days, 
K    tongue-tied   Poet   in   the   feverous 
That,  setting  the  how  much  before  the 
how,                            [leech,  "  Give, 
Cry,  like  the  daughters  of  the  horse- 
Cram  us  with  all,"  but  count  not  me  the 
herd! 
To  which  "  They  call  me  what  they 
will,"  he  said  : 
*'  But  I  was  born  too  late  :  the  fair  new 
forms,  [age, 
That  float  about  the  threshold  of  an 
Like  truths  of  Science  waiting  to  be 
caught —            [catcher  crown'd — 
Catch    me   who    can,   and    make    the 
Are  taken  by  the  forelock.     Let  it  be. 
But  if  you  care  indeed  to  listen,  hear 
These   measured   words,  my   work   of 
yestermorn.           [all  things  move  : 
"  We  sleep  and  wake  and  sleep,  but 
The  Sun  flies  forward  to  his  brother 
Sun  ;                               [her  ellipse ; 
The   dark   Earth   follows    wheel'd   in 
And  hum34i  things  returning  on  them- 
selves                                        [year. 
Move  onward,  leading  up  the  golden 
"  Ah,  tho'  the  times,  when  some  new 
thought  can  bud,                   [flower, 
Are  but  as  poets'  seasons  when  they 
Yet  seas,  that  daily  gain  upon  the  shore. 
Have  ebb  and  flow  conditioning  their 
march,                                        [year. 
And  slow  and  sure  comes  up  the  golden 
"  When  wealth  no  more  shall  rest  in 
mounded  heaps,                        [melt 
But  smit  with  freer  light  shall  slowly 
In  many  streams  to  fatten  lower  lands, 
And   light   shall   spread,  and  man   be 

liker  man 

Thro'  all  the  season  of  the  golden  year. 

"  Shall  eagles  not  be  eagles  ?  wrens 

be  wrens  ?  [that  ? 

K  all  the  world  were  falcons,  what  of 


The  wonder  of  the  eagle  were  the  less. 
But  he  not  less  the  eagle.  Happy  days 
Roll  onward,   leading   up   the   golden 

year.  [Press ; 

"  Fly  happy  happy  sails  and  bear  the 

Fly   happy,  with   the    mission    of   the 

Cross ;  [ward 

Knit  land  to  land,  and  blowing  haven- 
With  silks,  and  fruits,  and  spices,  clear 

of  toll. 
Enrich  the  markets  of  the  golden  year. 
"  But  we  grow  old.     Ah  !  when  shall 

all  men's  good 
Be  each  man's  rule,  and  universal  Peace 
Lie  like  a  shaft  of  light  across  the  land. 
And  like  a  lane  of  beams  athwart  the 

sea,  [year  ? " 

Thro'    all    the    circle    of   the    golden 

'Thus    far    he    flowed,   and    ended; 

whereupon  [swer'd  James — 

"  Ah,   folly !  "   in   mimic   cadence   an- 
'*  Ah,  folly !  for  it  lies  so  far  away. 
Not  in  our  time,  nor  in  our  children's 

time,  [live"; 

'Tis  like  the  second  world  to  us  that 
'Twere  all  as  one  to  fix  our  hopes  on 

Heaven 
As  on  this  vision  of  the  golden  year." 
With  that  he  struck  his  staff  against 

the  rocks 
And  broke  it, — James, — you  know  him, 

—old,  but  full 
Of  force  and  choler,  and  firm  upon  his 

feet,  [woods. 

And  like  an  oaken  stock  in  winter 
O'erflourish'd  with  the  hoary  clematis : 
Then  added,  all  in  heat : 

"  What  stuff  is  this  ! 
Old  writers  push'd  the  happy  season 

back, — 
The    more  fools   they, — we    forward : 

dreamers  both : 
You  most,  that  in  an  age,  when  every 

hour  [death, 

Must  sweat  her  sixty  minutes  to  the 
Live  on,  God  love  us,  as  if  the  seeds- 
man, rapt  [dip 
Upon  the  teaming  harvest,  should  not 
His  hand  into  the  bag :  but  well  I  knov/ 
That  unto  him  who  works,  and  feels  he 

works,  [doors." 

This  same  grand  year  is  over  at  the 


88 


UL  YSSES. 


He  spoke  ;  and,  high  above,  I  heard 

them  blast  [echo  flap 

The  steep  slate-quarry,  and  the  great 

And  buffet  round  the  hills  from  bluff  to 

bluff. 


/ 


ULYSSES. 


It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king, 

By  this  still  hearth,  among  these  barren 


crags, 


Match'd  with  an  aged  wife,  I  mete  and 
Ungual  lav/s  unto  a  savage  race, 
That  hoard,  and  sleep,  and  feed,  and 

know  not  me. 
I  cannot  rest  from  travel :  I  will  drink 
Life  to  the  lees :  all  times  I  have  en- 
joy'd  [those 
Gr€atly,  have  suffer'd  greatly,  both  with 
That  loved  me,  and  alone;  on  shore, 

and  when  ,  .*  •        -^  /.  /    ..^ 

Thro'  scudding  drifts  the  raiiiy  flyades 
Vext  the   dim  sea :   I  am  become  a 

name ; 
For  always  roaming  with  a  hungry  heart 
Much  have  I  seen  and  known ;  cities  of 

men  [ernments, 

And  manners,  climates,  councils,  gov- 
Myself  not  least,  but  honor'd  of  them 

all ;  [peers. 

And  drunk  delight  of  battle  with  my 
Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy  Troy. 
I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met ; 
Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  where- 

thro'  [margin  fades 

Gleams  that  untravell'd  world,  whose 
Forever  and  forever  when  I  move. 
How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end. 
To  rust  unburnish'd,  not  to  shine  in 

use  !  [on  life 

As  tho'  to  breathe  were  life.  Life  piled 
Were  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me 
Little  remains  :  but  every  hour  is  saved 
From  that  eternal  silence,  something 

more, 
A  bringer  of  new  things ;  and  vile  it  were 
For  some  three  suns  to  store  and  hoard 

myself. 
And  this  gray  spirit  yearning  in  desire 
To  follow  knowledge,  like   a  sinking 

star,  ' " — "'""-'-  [thought. 

Beyond  the  utmost  bound  of  human 


td.al©--Of  common  duties,  decent  not  to  fail 


This  is  my  son,  mine  own  Telema« 
chus,  ,  [isle— 

To  whom  I  leave  the  sceptre  and  the 
Well-loved  of  me,  discerning  to  fulfil 
This  labor,  by  slow  prudence  to  make 
mild  ■         — - 

A  rugged  people,  and  thro'  soft  degrees,^ 
Subdue    them   to   the   useful  and  the^ 
good.  [sphere 

Most  blameless  is  he,  centred  in  the 


In  offices  of  tenderness,  and  pay 

Meet  adoration  to  my  household  gods,  ^> 

When  I  am  gone.     He  works  hiswori£,_; 

I  mine.  [her  sail : 

There  lies  the  port :  the  vessel  puffs 

There  gloom  the  dark  broad  seas.     My 

mariners,    [and  thought  with  me — 
Souls  that  have   toil'd,  and  wrought, 
That  ever  with  a  frolic  welcome  took 
The   thunder   and   the    sunshine,   and    ' 

opposed  [are  old ;    "" 

Free  hearts,  free  foreheads — you  and  I 
Old  age  hath  yet  his  honor  and  his  toil ; 
Death  closes  all :  but  something   ere 

the  end,  [done, 

Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be"~',: 
Not  unbecoming  men  that  strove  with 

Gods.  [rocks : 

The  lights  begin  to  twinkle  from  the    ~ 
'The  long  day  wanes :  the  slow  moon 

climbs:  the  deep  [my friends, 

Moans  round  with  many  voices.  Come, 
'Tis  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world.  ^ 
Push  off,  and  sitting  well  in  order  smite 
The  sounding  furrows  \  for  my  purpose 

holds 
To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  tin;  baths 
Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  1  die.      ^ 
It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us 

down :  [Isles, 

It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy 
And  see  the  great  Achilles,  whom  we 

knew.  [tho'    '' 

Tho'  much  is  taken,  much  abides  ;  and 
We  are  not  now  that  strength  which  in    i 

old  days  [we  are,  we  are ; ,  \ 

Moved  earth  and  heaven;  that  which 
One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts. 
Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but  strong  , 

in  will  .         [yield. 

To  strive',  to,  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to 

l/'~"~~ "^  '   ^' 


L  O CKSLE  Y  HALL.  8S 


LOCKSLEY  HALL. 

Comrades,  leave  me  here  a  little,  while  as  yet  'tis  early  morn  ; 
Leave  me  here,  and  when  you  want  me,  sound  upon  the  bugle  horn. 

r~.   ,-    ' 
'Tis  the  place,  and  all  around  it,  as  of  old,  the  curlews  call, ' 
Dreary  gleams  about  the  moorland  flying  over  Locksley  Hall  ; 

Locksley  Hall,  that  in  the  distance  overlooks  the  sandy  tracts, 
And  the  hollow  ocean-ridges  roaring  into  cataracts. 

Many  a  night  from  yonder  ivied  casement,  ere  I  went  to  rest, 
Did  I  look  on  great  Orion  sloping  slowly  to  the  West. 

Many  a  night  I  saw  the  Pleiads,  rising  thro'  the  mellow  shade. 
Glitter  like  a  swarm  of  fire-flies  tangled  in  a  silver  braid. 

Here  about  the  beach  I  wander'd,  nourishing  a  youth  sublime 
With  the  fairy  tales  of  science,  and  the  long  result  of  Time  ; 

When  the  centuries  behind  me  like  a  fruitful  land  reposed ; 
When  I  clung  to  all  the  present  for  the  promise  that  it  closed : 

When  I  dipt  into  the  future  far  as  human  eye  could  see  ; 
SaafiAhe  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder  that  wculd  be. 


.  ^nthc 
P      In  the 


n  the  Sprinam  fuller  crimson  comes  upon  the  robin's  b-east ; 
In  the  Spring  the  wanton  lapwing  gets  himself  another  cest ; 

In  the  Spring  a  livelier  iris  changes  on  the  burnish'd^dovn  ;  \^ 

In  the  Spring^  young  man's  fancy  lightly  turns  to  thoughts  of  love.V 

Then  her  cheek  was  pale  and  thinner  than  should  be  for  one  so  young. 
And  her  eyes  on  all  my  motions  with  a  mute  observance  hung. 

And  I  said,  "  My  cousin  Amy,  speak,  and  speak  the  truth  to  me. 
Trust  me,  cousin,  all  the  current  of  my  being  sets  to  thee." 

On  her  pallid  cheek  and  forehead  came  a  color  and  a  light, 
As  I  have  seen  the  rosy  red  flushing  in  the  northern  night. 

And  she  turn'd — her  bosom  shaken  with  a  sudden  storm  of  sighs — 
All  the  spirit  deeply  dawning  in  the  dark  of  hazel  eyes — 

Saying,  "  I  have  hid  my  feelings,  fearing  they  should  do  me  wrong  " ; 
Saying,  '*  Dost  thou  love  me,  cousin  ? "  weeping,  "  I  have  loved  thee  long.** 

Lovejtook  up  the  glass  of  Time,  and  turn'd  it  in  his  glowing  hands  ; 
Every liiomeht,  lightly  shaken,  ran  itself  in  golden  sands. 

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote  on  all  the  chords  with  might ; 
Smj^t^  the  chord  of  Self,  that,  trembling,  pass'd  in  music  out  of  sight. 


sm^i 


any  a  morning  on  the  moorland  did  we  hear  the  copses  ring, 
And  her  whisper  throng'd  my  pulses  with  the  fulness  of  the  Spring. 


9 o  LO CKSLE Y  HALL. 


Many  an  evening  by  the  waters  did  we  watch  the  stately  ships, 
And  our  spirits  rush'd  together  at  the  touching  of  the  lips. 

O  my  cousin,  shallow-hearted  !     O  my  Amy,  mine  no  more  ! 
O  the  dreary,  dreary  moorland  !     O  the  barren,  barren  shore  ! 

Falser  than  all  fancy  fathoms,  falser  than  all  songs  have  sung, 
Puppet  to  a  father's  threat,  and  servile  to  a  shrewish  tongue  ! 

Is  it  well  to  wish  thee  happy  ? — having  known  me — to  decline 
On  a  range  of  lower  feelings  and  a  narrower  heart  than  mine ! 

':  Yet  it  shall  be  :  thou  shalt  lower  to  his  level  day  by  day, 
^WJaat  is  fine  within  thee  growing  coarse  to  sympathize  with  clay. 

As  the  husband  is,  the  wife  is  :  thou  art  mated  with  a  clown, 

And  the  grossness  of  his  nature  will  have  weight  to  drag  thee  down. 

He  will  hold  thee,  when  his  passion  shall  have  spent  its  novel  force, 
Something  better  than  his  dog,  a  little  dearer  than  his  horse. 

What  is  this  ?  his  eyes  are  heavy :  think  not  they  are  glazed  with  wine. 
Go  to  him  :  it  is  thy  duty  :  kiss  him  :  take  his  hand  in  thine. 

It  may  be  my  lord  is  weary,  that  his  brain  is  overwrought ; 

Soothe  him  with  thy  finer  fancies,  touch  him  with  thy  lighter  thought. 

He  will  answer  to  the  purpose,  easy  things  to  understand — 

Better  thou  wert  dead  before  me,  tho'  I  slew  thee  with  my  hand  !  . 

Better  thou  and  I  were  lying,  hidden  from  the  heart's  disgrace, 
Roll'd  in  one  another's  arms,  and  silent  in  a  last  embrace. 

^/Cursed  be  the  sacial  wants  that  sin  against  the  strength  of  youth  ! 
/  Cursed  be  the  social  lies  that  warp  us  from  the  living  truth  ! 

Cursed  be  the  sickly  forms  that  err  from  honest  Nature's  rule  ! 
Cursed  be  the  gold  that  gilds  the  straiten'd  forehead  of  the  fool  ! 

Well — 'tis  well  that  I  should  bluster ! — Hadst  thou  less  unworthy  proved  -^ 
"Would  to  God — for  I  had  loved  thee  more  than  ever  wife  was  loved. 


^, 


Am  I  mad,  that  I  should  cherish  that  which  bears  but  bitter  fruit  ? 
I  will  pluck  it  from  my  bosom,  tho'  my  heart  be  at  the  root. 

Never,  tho'  my  mortal  summers  to  such  length  of  years  shoukl  come 
As  the  many-winter'd  crow  that  leads  the  clanging  rookery  home. 

Where  is  comfort  ?  in  division  of  the  records  of  the  mind  ? 
Can  I  part  her  from  herself,  and  love  her,  as  I  knew  her,  kind  ? 

I  remember  one  that  perish'd  :  sweetly  did  she  speak  and  move  ; 
Such  a  one  do  I  remember,  whom  to  look  at  was  to  love. 

Can  I  think  of  her  as  dead,  and  love  her  for  the  love  she  bore  ? 
No—she  never  loved  me  truly  :  love  is  love  forcvermorc. 


n 


LOCKSLEY  HALL.  9 1 


Comfort  ?  comfort  scorn'd  of  devils  !  this  is  truth  the  poet  sings, 
..That  a  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is  remembering  happier  things. 

Drug  thy  memories,  lest  thou  learn  it,  lest  thy  heart  be  put  to  proof, 
In  the  dead  unhappy  night,  when  the  rain  is  on  the  roof. 

I,ike  a  dog,  he  hunts  in  dreams,  and  thou  art  staring  at  the  wall. 
Where  the  dying  night-lamp  flickers,  and  the  shadows  rise  and  fall. 

Then  a  hand  shall  pass  before  thee,  pointing  to  his  drunken  sleep, 
To  thy  widow'd  marriage  pillows,  to  the  tears  that  thou  wilt  weep. 

Thou  shalt  hear  the  "  IS^qyer,  never,"  whisper'd  by  the  phantom  years. 
And  a  song  from  out  the  distance  in  the  ringing  of  thine  ears ; 

And  an  eye  shall  vex  thcc,  looking  ancient  kindness  on  thy  pain. 
Turn  thee,  turn  thee  on  thy  pillow:  get  thee  to  tiiy  rest  ^fAjin. 


ay,  but  Nature  brings  thee  solace  ;  for  a  tender  voice  will  cry. 
'Tis  a  purer  life  than  thine ;  a  lip  to  drain  thy  trouble  dry. 

Baby  lips  will  laugh  me  down:  my  latest  rival  brings  thee  rest. 
Baby  fingers,  waxen  touches,  press  me  from  the  mother's  breast. 

O,  the  child  too  clothes  the  father  with  a  dearness  not  his  due. 
Half  is  thine  and  half  is  his  :  it  will  be  worthy  of  the  two. 

O,  I  see  thee  old  and  formal,  fitted  to  thy  petty  part. 

With  a  little  hoard  of  maxims  preaching  down  a  daughter's  heart. 

**  They  were  dangerous  guides  the  feelings— she  herself  was  not  exempt 
Truly,  she  herself  had  suffer' d  " — Perish  in  thy  self-contempt ! 

Overlive  it — lower  yet — be  happy  !  wherefore  should  I  care  ? 
I  myself  must  mix  with  action,  lest  I  wither  by  despair. 

What  is  that  which  I  should  turn  to,  lighting  upon  days  like  these  ? 
Every  door  is  barr'd  with  gold,  and  opens  but  to  golden  keys. 

Every  gate  is  throng'd  vvith  suitors,  all  the  markets  overflow. 
I  have  but  an  angry  fancy  :  what  is  that  which  I  should  do  ? 

I  had  been  content  to  perish,  falling  on  the  foeman's  gr.ound, 

When  the  ranks  are  roll'd  in  vapor,  and  the  winds  are  laid  with  sound. 

But  the  jingling  of  the  guinea  helps  the  hurt  that  Honor  feels, 
And  the  nations  do  but  murmur,  snarling  at  each  other's  heels. 

Can  1  but  relive  in  sadness.-*     I  will  turn  that  earlier  page. 
Hide  me  from  m.y  deep  emotion,  O  thou  wondrous  Mother- Age  I 

Make  me  feel  the  wild  pulsation  th  t  I  felt  before  the  strife. 
When  I  heard  my  days  before  me,  and  the  tumult  of  my  life  ; 

Yearning  for  the  large  excitement  that  the  coming  years  would  yields 
Eager-hearted -as  a  boy  when  first  he  leaves  his  father's  field, 


I 


92  LOCKSLEY  ITALL. 

And  at  night  along  the  dusky  highway  near  and  nearer  drawn, 
Sees  in  heaven  the  light  of  London  flaring  like  a  dreary  dawn  ; 

And  his  spirit  leaps  within  him  to  be  gone  before  him  then, 
Underneath  the  light  he  looks  at,  in  among  the  throngs  of  men ; 

Men,  my  brothers,  men  the  workers,  ever  reaping  something  new  : 
That  which  they  have  done  but  earnest  of  the  things  that  they"shall  do : 

For  I  dipt  into  the  future,  far  as  human  eye  could  see. 

Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder  that  would  be ; 

Saw  the  heavens  fill  with  commerce,  argosies  of  magic  sails. 
Pilots  of  the  purple  twiliglit,  dropping  down  with  costly  bales ; 

Heard  the  heavens  fill  with  shouting,  and  there  rain'd  a  ghastly  dew 
From  the  nations'  airy  navies  grappling  in  the  central  blue  ; 

Far  along  the  world-wide  whisper  of  the  south-wind  rushing  warm. 
With  the  standards  of  the  peoples  plunging  thro'  the  thunder-storm; 

Till  the  war-drum  throbb'd  no  longer,  and  the  battle-flags  were  furl'd 
In  the  Parliament  of  man,  the  Federation  of  the  world. 

There  the  comnion  sense  of  most  shall  hold  a  fretful  realm  in  awe. 
And  the  kindly  earth  shall  slumber,  lapt  in  universal  law. 

So  I  triumph'd,  ere  my  passion  sweeping  thro'  me  left  me  dry. 
Left  me  with  the  palsied  heart,  and  left  me  with  the  jaundiced  eye  ; 

,  Eye,  to  which  all  order  festers,  all  things  here  are  out  of  joint, 
(  Science  moves,  but  slowly  slowly,  creeping  on  from  point  to  point: 

Slowly  comes  a  .hungry  pepple,  as  a  lion,  creeping  nigher, 
Glares  at  one  that  nods  and  winks  behind  a  slowly-dying  fire. 

/  Yet  I  doubt  not  thro'  the  ages  one  increasing  purpose  runs, 
'JVnd  the  thoughts  of  men  are  widen'd  with  the  process  of  the  suns. 

What  is  that  to  him  that  reaps  not  harvest  of  his  youthful  joys, 
~'  o'  the  deep  heart  of  existence  beat  forever  like  a  boy's  ? 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  I  linger  on  the  shore, 
And  the  individual  withers,  and  the  world  is  more  and  more. 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  he  bears  a  laden  breast. 
Full  of  sad  experience,  moving  toward  the  stillness  of  his  rest. 

Hark,  my  merry  comrades  call  me,  sounding  on  the  bugle-horn. 
They  to  whom  my  foolish  passion  were  a  target  for  their  scorn: 


?,        on; 

/S       Na 


Shall  it  not  be  scorn  to  me  to  harp  on  such  a  moulder'd  string  ? 
m  shamed  thro'  all  my  nature  to  have  loved  so  slight  a  thing. 

Weakness  to  be  wroth  with  weakness  !  woman's  pleasure,  woman's  pain— » 
Nature  made  them  blinder  motions  bounded  in  a  shallower  brain: 


LOCKSLEY  HALL.  93 


Woman  is  the  lesser  man,  and  all  thy  passions,  match'd  with  mine. 
Are  as  moonlight  unto  sunlight,  Mid  as  water  unto  wine — 

Here  at  least,  where  nature  sickens,  nothing.     Ah,  for  some  retreat 
Deep  in  yonder  shining  Orient,  where  my  life  began  to  beat ; 

Where  in  wild  Mahratta- battle  fell  my  father  evil-starr'd ; — 
I  was  left  a  trampled  orphan,  and  a  selfish  uncle's  ward. 

Oi  to  burst  all  links  of  habit — there  to  wander  far  away, ) 
On  from  island  unto  island  at  the  gateways  of  the  day. 

Larger  constellations  burning,  mellow  moons  and  happy  skies, 
Breadths  of  tropic  shade  and  palms  in  cluster,  knots  of  Paradise, 

Never  comes  the  trader,  never  floats  an  European  flag. 

Slides  the  bird  o'er  lustrous  woodland,  swings  the  trailer  from  the  crag; 

Droops  the  heavy-blossom'd  bower,  hangs  the  heavy-fruited  tree — 
Summer  isles  of  Eden  lying  in  dark-purple  spheres  of  sea. 

There  methinks  would  be  enjoyment  more  than  in  this  march  of  mind, 
In  the  steamship,  in  the  railway,  in  the  thoughts  that  shake  mankind. 

There  the  passions  cramp'd  no  longer  shall  have  scope  and  breathing-sp;,«e : 
I  will  take  some  savage  woman,  she  shall  rear  my  dusky  race. 

Iron-jointed,  supple-sinew'd,  they  shall  dive,  and  they  shall  run, 
Catch  the  wild  goat  by  the  hair,  and  hurl  their  lances  in  the  sun ; 

Whistle  back  the  parrot's  call,  and  leap  the  rainbows  of  the  brooks, 
Not  with  blinded  eyesight  poring  over  miserable  books — 

Fool,  again  the  dream,  the  fancy  !  but  I  know  my  words  are  wild,     ^. 
But  I  count  the  gray  barbarian  lower  than  the  Christian  child. 

/,  to  herd  with  narrow  foreheads,  vacant  of  our  glorious  gains, 
Like  a  beast  with  lower  pleasures,  like  a  beast  with  lower  pains  ! 

Mated  with  a  squalid  savage — what  to  me  were  sun  or  l^ime  ? 
I  the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  foremost  files  of  timjE  - 

I  that  rather  held  it  better  men  should  perish  one  by  one, 

Than  that  earth  should  stand  at  gaze  like  Joshua'y  Xioon  in  Ajalon ! 

Not  in  vain  the  distance  beacons.     Forward,  for^^ard  let  us  range.  ) 

Let  the  great  world  spin  forever  down  the  ringing  grooves  of  change. 

Thro'  the  shadow  of  the  globe  we  sw«ep  intcJ^the  younger  day:   j 
Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a  cycle  of  Cathay.  '^^ 

Mother-Age  (for  mine  I  knew  not)  help  me  as  when  life  begun  : 

Rift  the  hills,  and  roll  the  waters,  flash  the  lightnings,  weigh  the  Sun  — 

O.  I  see  the  crescent  promise  of  my  spirit  hath  not  set. 
Ancient  founts  of  inspiration  well  thro'  all  my  fancy  yet. 


o 


94 


GODIVA. 


Howsoever  these  things  be,  a  long  farewell  to  Locksley  Hall ! 
Now  for  me  the  woods  may  wither,  now  for  me  the  roof-tree  fall. 

Comes  a  vapor  from  the  margin,  blackening  over  heath  and  holt, 
Cramming  all  the  blast  before  it,  in  its  breast  a  thunderbolt. 

Let  it  fall  on  Locksley  Hall,  with  rain  or  hail,  or  fire  or  snow  ; 
For  the  mighty  wind  arises,  roaring  seaward,  and  I  go. 


(^. 


GODIVA. 

/  waited  for  the  train  at  Coventry  ; 

I  hung  with  grooms  and  porters  on  the 

bridgCy  [/  shaped 

To  watch  the  three  tall  spires ;  and  there 
The  city's  ancient  legend  into  this  :— 

Not  only  we,  the  latest  seed  of  Time, 
New  men,'  that  in  the  flying  of  a  wheel 
Cry  down  the  past,  not  only  we,  that 

prate  [people  well. 

Of  rights  and  wrongs,  have  loved  the 
And  loathed  to  see  them  overtax'd ;  but 

she  [came. 

Did  more,  and  underwent,  and  over- 
The  woman  of  a  thousand  summers 

back,  [ruled 

Godiva,  wife  to  that  grim  Earl,  who 
In  Coventry:  for  when  he  laid  a  tax 
Upon   his  town,  and  all  the  mothers 

brought  [we  starve  !  " 

Their  children,  clamoring,  "  If  we  pay, 
She  sought  her  lord,  and  found  him, 

where  he  strode 
About  the  hall,  among  his  dogs,  alone, 
His  beard  a  foot  before  him,  and  his 

hair  [tears, 

A  yard  behind.     She  told  him  of  their 
And  pray'd  him,  "  If  tliey  pay  this  tax, 

they  starve."  [amazed. 

Whereat    he    stared,    replying,    half- 
"  You  would  not  let  your  little  finger 

ache  [die,"  said  she. 

For  such  as  M^j^.?"— "But  I  would 
He  laugh'd,  and  swore  by  Peter  and 

by  Paul : 
Then  fillip'd  at  the  diamond  in  her  ear ; 
"  O  ay,  ay,  ay,  you  talk  !  " — "  Alas ! " 

she  said,  [do." 

**  But  prove  me  what  it  is  I  would  not 


And  from  a  heart  as  rough  as  Esau's 

hand,  [the  town. 

He  answer'd,  "  Ride  you  naked  thro' 
And  I  repeal  it "  ;  and  nodding,  as  in 

scorn,  [dogs. 

He  parted,  with  great  strides  among  his 

So  left  alone,  the  passions   of  her 

mind,  blow, 

As  winds  from  all  the  compass  shift  and 
Made  war  upon  each  other  for  an  hour. 
Till  pity  won.  She  sent  a  herald  forth, 
And    bade    him    cry,  with    sound   of 

trumpet,  all  [loose 

The  hard  condition ;  but  that  she  would 
The  people:  therefore,  as  they  loved 

her  well, 
From  then  till   noon   no  foot  should 

pa^e  the  .street. 
No  eye   look  down,  she  passing;  but 

that  all  [dow  barr'd. 

Should  keep  within,  door  shut,  and  win- 
Then  fled  she  to  her  inmost  bower, 

and  there  [belt, 

Unclasp'd  the  wedded  eagles  of  her 
The  grim  Earl's  gift;  but  ever  at  a 

breath  [moon 

She  linger'd,  looking  like  a  summer 
Half-dipt  in  cloud:  anon  she  shook  her 

head,  [her  knee  ; 

And  shower'd  the  rippled  ringlets  to 
Unclad  herself  in  haste ;   adown   the 

stair  [beam,  slid 

Stole  on  ;  and,  like  a  creeping  sun- 
From  pillar  unto  pillar,  until  she  reach'd 
The    gateway ;    there    she   found   her 

palfrey  trapt 
In  purple  blazon'd  with  armorial  gold. 
Then  she  rode  forth,  clothed  on  with 

chastity:  [rode, 

The  deep  air  listen'd  round  her  as  .she 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 


95 


And  all  the  low  wind  hardly  breathed 

for  fear.  [spout 

The  little  wide-mouth'd  heads  upon  the 
Had  cunning  eyes  to  see :  the  barking 

cur  [footfall  shot 

Made  her   cheek  flame:    her  palfrey's 
Light  horrors  thro'  her  pulses :  the  blind 

walls  [head 

Were  full  of  chinks  and  holes ;  and  over- 
Fantastic  gables,  crowding,  stared:  but 

she  [saw 

Not  less  thro'  all  bore  up,  till,  last,  she 
The  white-flower'd  elder-thicket  from 

the  field  [wall. 

Gleam  thro'  the  Gothic  archways  in  the 

Then  she  rode  back,  clothed  on  with 

chastity:  [less  earth, 

And  one  low  churl,  compact  of  thank- 
The  fatal  byword  of  all  years  to  come, 
Boring  a  little  auger-hole  in  fear, 
Peep'd — but  his  eyes,  before  they  had 

their  will,         '  [head, 

Were  shrivell'd  into  darkness  in  his 
And  dropt  before  him.    So  the  Powers, 

who  wait  [used  ; 

On  noble  deeds,  cancell'd  a  sense  mis- 
And  she,  that  knew  not,  pass'd:  and  all 

at  once,  [shameless  noon 

With  twelve  great  shocks  of  sound,  the 
Was    clash'd   and   hammer'd  from   a 

hundred  towers, 
One  after  one :  but  even  then  she  gain'd 
Her  bower ;  whence  reissuing,  robed 

and  crown'd, 
To  meet  her  lord,  she  took  the  tax  away, 
And  built  herself  an  everlasting  name. 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 

A  STILL  small  voice  spake  xmto  me, 
"  Thou  art  so  full  of  misery, 
Were  it  not  better  not  to  be  ? " 

Then  to  the  still  small  voice  I  said: 
"  Let  me  not  cast  in  endless  shade 
What  is  so  wonderfully  made." 

To  which  the  voice  did  urge  reply: 
"  To-day  I  saw  the  dragon-fly 
Come  from  the  wells  where  he  did  lie 


"  An  inner  impulse  rent  the  veil 
Of  his  old  husk:  from  head  to  tail 
Came  out  clear  plates  of  sapphire  mail, 

"He  dried  his  wings:  like  gauze  they 

grew : 
Thro'  crofts  and  pastures  wet  with  dew 
A  living  flash  of  light  he  flew." 

I  said,  *'  When  first  the  world  began, 
Young  Nature  thro'  five  cycles  ran. 
And  in  the  sixth  she  moulded  man. 

"  She  gave  him  mind,  the  lordliest 
Proportion,  and,  above  the  rest, 
Dominion  in  the  head  and  breast." 

Thereto  the  silent  voice  replied: 
"  Self-blinded  are  you  by  your  pride : 
Look  up  thro'  night:  the  world  is  wide. 

"  This  truth  within  thy  mind  rehearse, 

That  in  a  boundless  universe 

Is  boundless  better,  boundless  worse. 

"Think  you  this  mould  of  hopes  and 

fears 
Could  find  no  statelier  than  his  peers 
In  yonder  hundred  million  spheres  .'  " 

It  spake,  moreover,  in  my  mind : 

"  Tho'  thou  wert  scatter'd  to  the  wind, 

Yet  is  there  plenty  of  the  kind  " 

Then  did  my  response  clearer  fall: 
"  No  compound  of  this  earthly  bail 
Is  like  another,  all  in  all." 

To  which  he  answer'd  scoffingly : 
"  Good  soul !  suppose  I  grant  it  thee, 
Who'll  weep  for  thy  deficiency  ? 

"  Or  will  one  beam  be  less  intense, 

When  thy  peculiar  difference 

Is  cancell'd  in  the  world  of  sense  ? " 

I  would  have  said,  "  Thou  canst  not, 

know." 
But  my  full  heart,  that  work'd  below, 
Rain'd  thro'  my  sight  its  overflow. 

Again  the  voice  spake  unto  me: 
"Thou  art  so  steep'd  in  misery, 
Surely  'twere  better  not  to  be' 


96 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 


*'  Thine  anguish  will  not  let  thee  sleep, 
Nor  any  train  of  reason  keep : 
Thou   canst   not  think,  but  thou  wilt 
weep." 

I  said,  "  The  years  with  change   ad- 
vance : 
If  I  make  dark  my  countenance, 
I  shut  my  life  from  happier  chance. 

•'  Some  turn  this  sickness  yet  might 
take,  [make 

Ev'n  yet."     But  he:  "What  drug  can 
A  wither'd  palsy  cease  to  shake  ? " 

I  wept,  *'  Tho'  I  should  die,  I  know 
That  all  about  the  thorn  will  blow 
In  tufts  of  rosy-tinted  snow  ; 

*'And  men,   thro'    novel    spheres    of 

thought 
Still  moving  after  truth  long  sought. 
Will  learn  new  things  when  I  am  not." 

"  Yet,"  said  the  secret  voice,  "  some 

time 
Sooner  or  later,  will  gray  prime 
Make  thy  grass  hoar  with  early  rime. 

"  Not  less  swift  souls   that  yearn  for 

light. 
Rapt  after  heaven's  starry  flight, 
Would  sweep  the  tracts  of  day  and 

night. 

*'  Not  less  the  bee  would  range  her 

cells, 
The  f  urzy  prickle  fire  the  dells, 
The  foxglove  cluster  dappled  bells." 

I  said  that  "  all  the  years  invent; 
Each  month  is  various  to  present 
The  world  with  some  development. 

"  Were  this  not  well,  to  bide  mine  hour, 
Tho'  watching  from  a  ruin'd  tower 
How  grows  the  day  of  human  power  ? " 

"  The  highest-mounted  mind,"  he  said, 
"  Still  sees  the  sacred  morning  spread 
The  silent  summit  overhead. 

•*  Will  thirty  seasons  render  plain 
Those  lonely  lights  that  still  remain. 
Just  breaking  over  land  and  main  .'' 


"  Or  make  that  morn,  from   his  cold 

crown 
And  crystal  silence  creeping  down, 
Flood    with    full   daylight  glebe    and 

town  ? 

"  Forerun  thy  peers,  thy  time,  and  let 
Thy  feet,  millenniums  hence,  be  set 
In  midst  of  knowledge,  dream'd  not 
yet. 

"Thou  hast  not  gained  a  real  height. 
Nor  art  thou  nearer  to  the  light, 
Because  the  scale  is  infinite. 

"  'Twere  better  not  to  breathe  or  speak, 
Than  cry  for  strength,  remaining  weak, 
And  seem  to  find,  but  still  to  seek. 

"  Moreover,  but  to  seem  to  find 
Asks   what  thou  lackest,  thought   re 

sign'd, 
A  healthy  frame,  a  quiet  mind." 

I  said,  "  When  I  am  gone  away, 
'  He  dared  not  tarry,'  men  will  say, 
Doing  dishonor  to  my  clay." 

"  This  is  more  vile,"  he  made  reply, 
"  To  breathe   and  loathe,  to  live  and 

sigh. 
Than  once  from  dread  of  pain  to  die. 

"  Sick  art  thou — a  divided  will 
Still  heaping  on  the  fear  of  ill 
The  fear  of  men,  a  coward  still. 

"  Do  men  love  thee  ?     Art  thou  so 

bound 
To  men,  that  how  thy  name  may  sound 
Will  vex  thee  lying  underground  .? 

"  The  memory  of  the  wither'd  leaf 
In  endless  time  is  scarce  more  brief 
Than  of  the  garner'd  Autumn-sheaf. 

"  Go,  vexed  Spirit,  sleep  in  trust ; 
The  right  ear,  that  is  fill'd  with  dust, 
Hears  little  of  the  false  or  just." 

"  Hard  task,  to  pluck  resolve,"  I  cried, 
'*  From  emptiness  and  the  waste  wide 
Of  that  abyss,  or  scornful  pride  ! 

"  Nay — rather  yet  that  I  could  raise 
One  hope  that  warm'd  me  in  the  days 
While  still  I  yearn'd  for  human  praise 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 


97 


"  When,   wide   in    soul    and  bold    of 

tongue, 
Among  the  tents  I  paused  and  sung, 
The  distant  battle  flash'd  and  rung. 

"  I  sung  the  joyful  Psean  clear, 
And,  sitting,  burnish'd  without  fear 
The  brand,  the  buckler,  and  the  spear — 

"  Waiting  to  strive  a  happy  strife. 
To  war  with  falsehood  to  the  knife. 
And  not  to  lose  the  good  of  life — 

"  Some  hidden  principle  to  move. 
To  put  together,  part  and  prove. 
And  mete   the    bounds    of  hate   and 
love — 

"  As  far  as  might  be,  to  carve  ou>. 
Free  space  for  every  human  doubt, 
That  the  whole  mind  might  orb  about — 

"  To  search  thro*  all  I  felt  or  saw, 
The  springs  of  life,  "the  depths  of  awe, 
And  reach  the  law  within  the  law: 

'•'  At  least,  not  rotting  like  a  weed. 
But,  having  sown  some  generous  seed. 
Fruitful  of  further  thought  and  deed, 

"To  pass,  when   Life  her  light  with- 
draws, 
Not  void  of  righteous  self-applause. 
Nor  m  a  merely  selfish  cause — • 

"  In  some  good  cause,  not  in  mine  own. 
To  perish,  wept  for,  honor'd,  known. 
And  like  a  warrior  overthrown ; 

"  Whose  eyes   are   dim  with  glorious 

tears. 
When,  soil'd  with  noble  dust,  he  hears 
His  country's  war-song  thrill  his  ears : 

"  Then  dying  of  a  mortal  stroke, 
What  time  the  foeman's  line  is  broke, 
And  all  the  war  is  roll'd  in  smoke." 

"  Yea  ! "  said  the   voice,   "  thy  dream 

was  good. 
While  thou  abodest  in  the  bud. 
It  was  the  stirring  of  the  blood. 

"  If  Nature  put  not  forth  her  power 
About  the  opening  of  the  flower. 
Who  is  it  that  could  live  an  hour  ? 


"  Then  comes  the  check,  the  change, 

the  fall, 
Pain  rises  up,  old  pleasures  pall 
There  is  one  remedy  for  all. 

"  Yet  hadst  thou,  thro'  enduring  pain, 
Link'd   month  to   month  with  such  a 

chain 
Of  knitted  purport,  all  were  vain. 

"  Thou  hadst  not  between  death  and 

birth 
Dissolved  the  riddle  of  the  earth. 
So  were  thy  labor  little  worth. 

"That  men    with    knowledge   merely 

play'd, 
I  told  thee — hardly  nigher  made, 
Tho'  scaling  slow  from  grade  to  grade  ; 

"  Much    less   this   dreamer,  deaf  and 
blind,  [find. 

Named  man,  may  hope  some  truth  to 
That  bears  relation  to  the  mind. 

"  For  every  worm  beneath  the  moon 
Draws  different  threads,  and  late  and 

soon 
Spins,  toiling  out  his  own  cocoon. 

"  Cry,  faint  not:  either  Truth  is  born 
Beyond  the  polar  gleam  forlorn, 
Or' in  the  gateways  of  the  morn. 

"Cry,  faint  not,  climb:    the  summits 

slope 
Beyond  the  furthest  flights  of  hope, 
Wrapt  in  dense   cloud  from  base   ta 

cope. 

"  Sometimes  a  littie  corner  snmes,. 

As  over  rainy  mist  inclines 

A  gleaming  crag  with  belts  of  pines* 

"  I  will  go  forward,  sayest  thou, 
I  shall  not  fail  to  find  her  now. 
Look  up,  the  fold  is  on  her  brow. 

"  If  straight  thy  track,  or  if  oblique, 
Thou  know'st  not.     Shadows  thou  dost 

strike. 
Embracing  cloud,  Ixion-like ; 

"  And  owning  but  a  little  more 
Than  beasts,  abidest  lame  and  poor, 
Calling  thyself  a  little  lower 


98 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 


*'Than   angels.      Cease    to    wail   and 

brawl  1 
Why  inch  by  inch  to  darkness  crawl  ? 
There  is  one  remedy  for  all." 

"  O  dull,  one-sided  voice,"  said  I, 
"  Wilt  thou  make  everything  a  lie, 
To  flatter  me  that  I  may  die  ? 

"  I  know  that  age  to  age  succeeds, 
Blowing  a  noise  of  tongues  and  deeds, 
A  dust  of  systems  and  of  creeds. 

"  I  cannot  hide  that  some  have  striven. 
Achieving  calm,  to  whom  was  given 
The  joy  that  mixes  man  with  Heaven  : 

"  Who,  rowing  hard  against  the  stream. 
Saw  distant  gates  of  Eden  gleam. 
And  did  not  dream  it  was  a  dream  ; 

"  But  heard,  by  secret  transport  led, 
Ev'n  in  the  charnels  of  the  dead, 
The  murmur  of  the  fountain-head — 

"  Which  did  accomplish  their  desire, 
3ore  and  forebore,  and  did  not  tire, 
Like  Stephen,  an  unquenched  fire. 

•'  He  heeded  not  reviling  tones, 
Nor  sold  his  heart  to  idle  moans, 
Tho'  cursed  and  scorn'd,  and  bruised 
with  stones : 

"  But  looking  upward,  full  of  grace. 
He  pray'd,  and  from  a  happy  place 
God's  glory  smote  him  on  the  face." 

The  sullen  answer  slid  betwixt : 

•'  Not  that  the  grounds  of  hope  were 

fix'd. 
The  elements  were  kindlier  mix'd." 

I  said,  "  I  toil  beneath  the  curse. 
But,  knowing  not  the  universe, 
T  fear  to  slide  from  bad  to  worse. 

"  And  that,  in  seeking  to  undo 
One  riddle,  and  to  find  the  true, 
I  knit  a  hundred  others  new : 

"  Or  that  this  anguish  fleeting  hence, 
Unmanacled  from  bonds  of  sense, 
Be  fix'd  and  froz'n  to  permanence  : 


"  For  I  go,  weak  from  suflfering  here : 
Naked  1  go,  and  void  of  cheer  : 
What  is  it  that  I  may  not  fear  ?  '* 

"  Consider  well,'*  the  voice  replied, 
"  His  face,  that  two  hours  since  hath 

died  : 
Wilt  thou  find  passion,  pain,  or  pride  ? 

"  Will  he  obey  when  orie  commands  .'' 
Or  answer  should  one  press  his  hands  \ 
He  answers  not,  nor  understands. 

"  His  palms  are  folded  on  his  breast : 
There  is  no  other  thing  express'd 
But  long  disquiet  merged  in  rest. 

"  His  lips  are  very  mild  and  meek  : 
Tho'  one  should  smite  him  on  the  cheek, 
And  on  the  mouth,  he  will  not  speak. 

"  His  little  daughter,  whose  sweet  face 
He  kiss'd,  taking  his  last  embrace, 
Becomes  dishonor  to  her  race — 

"  His  sons  grow  up  that  bear  his  name, 
Some  grow  to  honor,  some  to  shame, — ■ 
But  he  is  chill  to  praise  or  blame. 

"  He  will  not  hear  the  north-wind  rave. 
Nor,  moaning,  household  shelter  crave 
From  winter  rains  that  beat  his  grave. 

"  High  up  the  vapors  fold  and  swim  : 
About  him  broods  the  twilight  dim  : 
The  place  he  knew  forgetteth  him." 

"  If  all  be  dark,  vague  voice,"  I  said, 
"  These  things  are  wrapt  in  doubt  and 

dread, 
Nor  canst  thou  show  the  dead  are  dead. 

"  The  sap  dries  up :  the  plant  declines. 
A  deeper  tale  my  heart  divines. 
Know  I  not  Death.!*  the  outward  signs? 

"  I  found  him  when  my  years  were  few; 
A  shadow  on  the  graves  I  knew. 
And  darkness  in  the  village  yew. 

"  From    grave   to   grave    the    shadow 

crept : 
In  her  still  place  the  morning  wept : 
Touch'd  by  his  feet  the  daisy  slept. 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 


99 


"  The  simple  senses  crown'd  his  head  : 
'  Omega  !  thou  art  Lord,'  they  said 
'  We  find  no  motion  in  the  dead.' 

"  V\'hy,  if  man  rot  in  dreamless  ease, 
Should  that  plain    fact,  as    taught  by 

these. 
Not  make  him  sure  that  he  shall  cease  ? 

"  Who  forged  that  other  influence. 

That  heat  of  inward  evidence, 

I5y  which  he  doubts  against  the  sense  ? 

"  He  owns  the  fatal  gift  of  eyes, 
That  read  his  spirit  blindly  wise, 
Not  simple  as  a  thing  that  dies. 

"  Here  sits  he  shaping  wings  to  fly: 
His  heart  forebodes  a  mystery  : 
He  names  the  name  Eternity. 

"  That  type  of  Perfect  in  his  mind 
In  Nature  can  he  nowhere  find. 
He  sows  himself  on  every  wind. 

"  He  seems  to  hear  a  Heavenly  Friend, 
And  thro'  thick  veils  to  apprehend 
A  labor  working  to  an  end. 

"  The  end  and  the  beginning  vex 
His  reason  :  many  things  perplex, 
With   motions,   checks,   and    counter- 
checks. 

"  He  knows  a  baseness  in  his  blood 
At  such  strange  war  with  something 

good. 
He  may  not  do  the  thing  he  would. 

"  Heaven  opens  inward,  chasms  yawn, 
Vast  images  in  glimmering  dawn. 
Half-shown,  are  broken  and  withdrawn. 

"Ah  !  sure  within  him  and  without, 
Could  his  dark  wisdom  find  it  out, 
There  must  be  answer  to  his  doubt. 

"  But  thou  canst  answer  not  again. 
With  thine  own  weapon  art  thou  slain. 
Or  thou  wilt  answer  but  in  vain. 

"The   doubt    would  rest,  I  dare   not 

solve. 
In  the  same  circle  we  revolve. 
Assurance  only  breeds  resolve." 


As  when  a  billow,  blown  against. 
Falls   back,   the   voice   with   which   I 

fenced 
A  little  ceased,  but  recommenced  : 

"  Where   wert   thou   when  thy  father 

play'd 
In  his  free  field,  and  pastime  made, 
A  merry  boy  in  sun  and  shade  } 

"  A  merry  boy  they  called  him  then. 
He  sat  upon  the  knees  of  men 
In  days  that  never  come  again. 

"  Before  the  little  ducts  began 

To  feed  thy  bones  with  lime,  and  ran 

Their  course,  till  thou  wert  also  man  j 

"  Who  took  a  wife,  who  rear'd  his  race, 
Whose  wrinkles  gather'd  on  his  face. 
Whose  troubles  number  with  his  days : 

"  A  life  of  nothings,  nothing-worth. 
From  that  first  nothing  ere  his  birth 
To  that  last  nothing  under  earth  !  " 

"  These  words,"  I  said,  "  are  like  the 

rest. 
No  certain  clearness,  but  at  best 
A  vague  suspicion  of  the  breast : 

"  But  if  I  grant,  thou  might'st  defend 
The  thesis  which  thy  words  intend — 
That  to  begin  implies  to  end  ; 

"  Yet  how  should  I  for  certain  hold, 
Because  my  memory  is  so  cold. 
That  I  first  was  in  human  mould  ? 

'*  I  cannot  make  this  matter  plain, 
But  I  would  shoot,  howe'er  in  vain, 
A  random  arrow  from  the  brain. 

"  It  may  be  that  no  life  is  found, 
Which  only  to  one  engine  bound 
Falls  off,  but  cycles  always  round. 

"  As  old  mythologies  relate. 

Some  draught  of  Lethe  might  await 

The  slipping  thro'  from  state  to  state, 

"  As  here  we  find  in  trances,  men 
Forget  the  dream  that  happens  then^ 
Until  they  fall  in  trance  again. 


100 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 


••  So  might  we,  if  our  state  were  such 
As  one  before,  remember  much, 
For   those  two  likes  might  meet  and 
touch. 

"  But,  if  I  lapsed  from  nobler  place. 
Some  legend  of  a  fallen  race 
Aloue  might  hint  of  my  disgrace  ; 

"  Some  vague  emotion  of  delight 
In  gazing  up  an  Alpine  height. 
Some  yearning  towards  the   lamps  of 
night. 

'*  Or  if  thro'  lower  lives  I  came— 
Tho'  all  experience  past  became 
Consolidate  in  mind  and  frame — 

*'  I  might  forget  my  weaker  lot  ; 
For  is  not  our  first  year  forgot .'' 
The  haunts  of  memory  echo  not. 

•'  And  men,  whose   reason   long  was 

blind, 
From  cells  of  madness  unconfined. 
Oft  lose  whole  years  of  darker  mind. 

"Much  more,  if  first  I  floated  free, 
As  naked  essence,  must  I  be, 
Incompetent  of  memory : 

*'  For  memory  dealing  but  with  time, 
And  he  with  matter,  could  she  climb 
Beyond  her  own  material  prime  } 

"  Moreover,  something  is  or  seems, 
That  touches  me  with  mystic  gleams. 
Like  glimpses  of  forgotten  dreams — 

"  Of    something    felt,  like    something 

here  ; 
Of  something  done,  I  know  not  where  ; 
Such  as  no  language  may  declare." 

The   still   voice    laugh'd       "I   talk," 

said  he, 
''  Not  with  thy  dreams.    Suffice  it  thee 
Thy  pain  is  a  reality." 

•'  But  thou,"  said  I,  "  hast  miss'd  thy 

mark. 
Who   sought'st  to  wreck  my  mortal 

ark, 
By  making  all  the  horizon  dark. 


"  Why  not  set  forth,  if  I  should  do 
This  rashness,  that  which  might  ensue 
With  this  old  soul  in  organs  new.** 

*'  Whatever  crazy  sorrow  saith, 

No    life    that    breathes   with    human 

breath 
Has  ever  truly  long'd  for  death. 

"  'T  is  life,  whereof  our   nerves   are 
scant, 

0  life,  not  death,  for  which  we  pant ; 
More  life,  and  fuller,  that  I  want." 

1  ceased,  and  sat  as  one  forlorn. 
Then  said  the  voice,  in  quiet  scorn  r- 
"Behold,  it  is  the  Sabbath  morn.'* 

And  I  aiose,  and  I  released 

The  casement,  and  the  light  increased 

With  freshness  in  the  dawning  east. 

Like  soften'd  airs  that  blowing  steal, 
When  meres  begin  to  uncongeal, 
The  sweet  church  bells  began  to  peal. 

On  to  God's  house  the  people  prest  : 
Passing  the  place  where  each  must  rest. 
Each  enter'd  like  a  welcome  guest. 

One  walk'd  between  his  wife  and  child, 
With  measur'd  footfall  firm  and  mild. 
And  now  and  then  he  gravely  smiled. 

The  prudent  partner  of  his  blood 
Lean'd  on  him,  faithful,  gentle,  good, 
Wearing  the  rose  of  womanhood. 

And  in  their  double  love  secure, 
The  little  maiden  walk'd  demure. 
Pacing  with  downward  eyelids  pure. 

These  three  made  unity  so  sweet, 
My  frozen  heart  began  to  beat. 
Remembering  its  ancient  heat. 

I  blest  them,  and  they  wander'd  on  : 
I  spoke,  but  answer  came  there  none 
The  dull  and  bitter  voice  was  gone. 

A  second  voice  was  at  mine  ear, 

A  little  whisper  silver-clear, 

A  murmur,  "Be  of  better  cheer." 

As  from  some  blissful  neighborhood, 

A  notice  faintly  understood, 

"  I  see  the  end,  and  know  the  good." 


+- 


THE  DA  Y-DREAM. 


lOl 


A  little  hint  to  solace  woe, 

A  hint,  a  whisper  breathing  low, 

"  I  may  not  speak  of  what  I  know." 

Like  an  ^Eolian  harp  that  wakes 

No  certain  air,  but  overtakes 

Far  thought  with  music  that  it  makes  : 

Such  seem'd  the  whisper  at  my  side  : 
"  What    is    it    thou     knowest,    sweet 

voice?"  I  cried. 
"  A  hidden  hope,"  the  voice  replied : 

So  heavenly-toned,  that  in  that  hour 
From  out  my  sullen  heart  a  power 
Broke,    like    the    rainbow    from    the 
shower, 

To  feel,  altho'  no  tongue  can  prove. 
That  every  cloud,  that  spreads  above 
And  veileth  love,  itself  is  love. 

And  forth  into  the  fields  I  went, 
And  Nature's  living  motion  lent 
The  pulse  of  hope  to  discontent. 

I  wonder'd  at  the  bounteous  hours, 
The  slow  result  of  winter-showers  : 
You  scarce   could  see   the  grass   for 
flowers. 

I  wonder'd,  while  I  paced  along : 
The  woods  were  fiU'd  so  full  with  song, 
There  seem'd  no  room  for  sense  of 
wrong. 

So  variously  seem'd  all  things  wrought, 
I  marvell'd  how  the  mind  was  brought 
To  anchor  by  one  gloomy  thought ; 

And  wherefore  rather  I  made  choice 
To  commune  with  that  barren  voice. 
Than    him    that    said,  "  Rejoicel   re- 
joice ! " 


THE  DAY-DREAM. 

PROLOGUE. 

O  Lady  Flora,  let  me  speak : 
A  pleasant  hour  has  past  away 

While,    dreaming    on     your    damask 
cheek, 
The  dewy  sister-eyelids  lay. 


As  by  the  lattice  you  reclined, 

I  went  thro'  many  wayward  moods 
To  see  you  dreaming — and,  behind, 

A  summer  crisp  with  shining  woods* 
And  1  too  dream'd,  until  at  last 

Across  my  fancy,  brooding  warm, 
The  reflex  of  a  legend  past. 

And  loosely  settled  into  form. 
And  would  you  have  the  thought  I  had, 

And  see  the  vision  that  I  saw. 
Then  take  the  broidery-frame,  and  add 

A  crimson  to  the  quaint  Macaw, 
And  I  will  tell  it.     Turn  your  face. 

Nor  look  with  that  too-earnest  eye — 
The  rhymes  are  dazzled  from  their 
place. 

And  order'd  words  asunder  fly. 

THE  SLEEPING-PALACE. 


The  varying  year  with  blade  and  sheaf 

Clothes    and    reclothes  the  happy 
plains : 
Here  rests  the  sap  within  the  leaf, 

Here  stays  the  blood  along  the  veins. 
Faint  shadows,  vapors  lightly  curl'd, 

Faint  murmurs  from  the  meadows 
come, 
Like  hints  and  echoes  of  the  world 

To  spirits  folded  in  the  womb. 


Soft  lustre  bathes  the  range  of  urns 

On  every  slanting  terrace-lawn. 
The  fountain  to  his  place  returns, 

Deep  in  the  garden  lake  withdrawn. 
Here  droops  the  banner  on  the  tower, 

On  the  hall-hearths  the  festal  fires. 
The  peacock  in  his  laurel  bower, 

The  parrot  in  his  gilded  wires. 

3- 
Roof-haunting    martins    warm    theii 
eggs: 
In  these,  in  those  the  life  is  stay'd, 
The  mantles  from  the  golden  pegs 

Droop  sleepily :  no  sound  is  made, 
Not  even  of. a  gnat  that  sings. 

More  like  a  picture  seemeth  all 
Than  those  old  portraits  of  old  kings, 
That  watch  the  sleepers  from  the 
wall. 


102 


THE  DAY-DREAM. 


Here  sits  the  butler  with  a  flask 

Between  his  knees  half-drain'd ;  and 
there 
The  wrinkled  steward  at  his  task, 

The  maid-of-honor  blooming  fair : 
The  page  has  caught  her  hand  in  his: 

Her  lips  are  sever'd  as  to  speak : 
His  own  are  pouted  to  a  kiss  ; 

The  blush  is  fix'd  upon  her  cheek. 


Till  all  the  hundred  summers  pass, 

The  beams,  that  through  the  oriel 
shine, 
Make  prisms  in  every  carven  glass, 

And    beaker    brimm'd   with    noble 
wine. 
Each  baron  at  the  banquet  sleeps, 

Grave  faces  gather'd  in  a  ring. 
His  state  the  king  reposing  keeps. 

lie  must  have  been  a  jovial  king. 


All  round  a  hedge  upshoots,  and  shows 

At  distance  like  a  little  wood  ; 
Thorns,  ivies,  woodbine,  mistletoes, 

And   grapes  with  bunches   red   as 
blood; 
All  creeping  plants,  a  wall  of  green 

Close-matted,   bur    and  brake   and 
brier. 
And  glimpsing  over  these,  just  seen, 

High  up  the  topmost  palace-spire. 


When  will  the  hundred  summers  die, 
And    thought    and    time    be    born 
again, 
^nd  newer  knowledge,  drawing  nigh. 
Bring  truth  that  sways  the  soul  of 
men? 
Here  all  things  in  their  place  remain, 

As  all  were  order'd,  ages  since. 
Come,  Care  and  Pleasure,  Hope  and 
Pain, 
And  bring  the  fated  fairy  Prince. 


THE  SLEEPING-BEAUTY. 


Year  after  year  unto  her  feet, 

She  lying  on  her  couch  alone, 
Across  the  purpled  coverlet, 

The    maiden's    jet-black    hair    has 
grown, 
On  either  side  her  tranced  form 

Forth    streaming    from   a  braid   of 
pearl ; 
The  slumbrous  light  is  rich  and  warm, 

And  moves  not  on  the  rounded  curl. 


The  silk  star-broider'd  coverlid 

Unto  her  limbs  itself  doth  mould 
Languidly  ever ;  and,  amid 

Her  full   black  ringlets  downward 
roll'd, 
Glows  forth  each  softly-shadowed  arm 
With    bracelets     of    the    diamond 
bright  : 
Her  constant  beauty  doth  inform 
Stillness   with  love,  and  day  with 
light. 


She   sleeps :    her  breathings  are  not 
heard 
In  palace  chambers  far  apart. 
The  fragrant  tresses  are  not  stirr'd 
That  lie  upon  her  charmed  heart. 
She  sleeps  :  on  either  hand  upsvvells 
The      gold-fringed     pillow     lightly 
prest : 
She    sleeps,    nor    dreams,   but    ever 
dwells 
A  perfect  form  in  perfect  rest. 

THE  ARRIVAL. 


All  precious  things,  discover'd  late. 

To  those  that  seek  them  issue  forth, 
For  love  in  sequel  works  with  fate, 

And   draws   the  veil   from    hidden 
worth. 
He  travels  far  from  other  skies — 

His  mantle  glitters  on  the  rocks — 
A  fairy  Prince,  with  joyful  eyes, 

And  lighter-footed  than  the  fox. 


THE  DAY-DREAM. 


103 


The  bodies  and  the  bones  of  those 

That  strove  in  other  days  to  pass, 
Are  wither'd  in  the  thorny  close, 

Or  scattered  blanching  on  the  grass. 
He  gazes  on  the  silent  dead 

"They     perish'd    in     their    daring 
deeds." 
This  proverb  flashes  thro'  his  head, 

"The  many  fail :  the  one  succeeds." 


He   comes,  scarce   knowing  what   he 
seeks : 

He  breaks  the  hedge:    he  enters 
there : 
The  color  flies  into  his  cheeks : 

He  trusts  to  light  on  something  fair; 
For  all  his  life  the  charm  did  talk 

About  his  path,  and  hover  near 
With  words  of  promise  in  his  walk, 

And  whisper'd  voices  at  his  ear. 

4- 
More  close   and   close    his    footsteps 
wind ; 
The  Magic  Music  in  his  heart 
Beats  quick  and  quicker,  till  he  find 

The  quiet  chamber  far  apart. 
His  spirit  flutters  like  a  lark. 

He  stoops — to  kiss  her — on  his  knee. 
"  Love,  if  thy  tresses  be  so  dark, 
How  dark  those  hidden  eyes  must 
be!" 

THE  REVIVAL, 


A  touch,  a  kiss !   the  charm  was  snapt. 

There  rose  a  noise  of  striking  clocks, 
And  feet   that  ran,   and    doors    that 
clapt, 

And    barking    dogs,    and    crowing 
cocks  ; 
A  fuller  light  illumined  all, 

A  breeze  thro'  all  the  garden  swept, 
A  sudden  hubbub  shook  the  hall, 

And  sixty  feet  the  fountain  leapt. 

2 
The  hedge  broke  in,  the  banner  blew. 
The     butler     drank,    the     steward 
scrawl'd. 


The  fire  shot  up,  the  martin  flew, 
The   parrot   scream'd,  the   peacock 
squall'd. 
The    maid   and    page    renew'd   their 
strife, 
The  palace  bang'd,  and  buzz'd,  and 
clackt. 
And  all  the  long-pent  stream  of  life 
Dash'd  downward  in  a  cataract. 

3- 

And  last  with  these  the  king  awoke. 

And  in  his  chair  himself  uprear'd. 
And  yawn'd,  and  rubb'd  his  face,  and 
spoke, 

"  By  holy  rood,  a  royal  beard ! 
How  say  you  ?  we  have  slept,  my  lords. 

My  beard  has  grown  into  my  lap." 
The  barons  swore,  with  many  words, 

'Twas  but  an  after-dinner's  nap. 

4- 
"Pardy,"  return'd  the  king,  "  but  still 

My  joints  are  something  stiff  or  so. 
My  lord,  and  shall  we  pass  the  bill 

I  mention'd  half  an  hour  ago  'i  " 
The  chancellor,  sedate  and  vain, 

In  courteous  words  return'd  reply; 
But  dallied  with  his  golden  chain, 

And,  smiling,  put  the  question  by. 

THE  DEPARTURE. 
I. 

And  on  her  lover's  arm  she  leant, 

And  round  her  waist  she  felt  it  fold, 
And  far  across  the  hills  they  went 

In  that  new  world  which  is  the  old  ; 
Across  the  hills,  and  far  away 

Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim. 
And  deep  into  the  dying  day 

The  happy  princess  foUow'd  him. 

2. 
"  I'd  sleep  another  hundred  years, 

O  love,  for  such  another  kiss  "  ; 
"  O  wake  forever,  love,"  she  hears, 

'*  O  love,  't  was   such  as  this   and 
this." 
And  o'er  them  many  a  sliding  star, 

And  many  a  merry  wind  was  borne, 
And,  stream'd  thro'  many  a  golden  ha.r, 

The  tv/ilight  melted  into  uiarn. 


I04 


THE  DA  Y-DREAM. 


**0  eyes  long  laid  in  happy  sleep  !  " 

"  O  happy  sleep,  that  lightly  fled  !" 
"  O  happy  kiss,  that  woke  thy  sleep  1  " 

"O  love,  thy  kiss  would  wake  the 
dead  ! 
And  o'er  them  many  a  flowing  range 

Of  vapor  buoy'd  the  crescent-bark, 
And,  rapt  thro'  many  a  rosy  change, 

The  twilight  died  into  the  dark. 

4- 
"  A  hundred  summers  !  can  it  be  ? 
And  whither    goes    thou,  tell    me 
where  ? " 
'•'  O  seek  my  father's  court  with  me, 
For     there     are     greater     wonders 
there." 
And  o'er  the  hills,  and  far  away 

Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim, 
Beyond  the  night,  across  the  day, 
Thro'  all  the  world  she  follow'd  him. 

MORAL. 
I. 

So,  Lady  Flora,  take  my  lay, 

And  if  you  find  no  moral  there, 
Go,  look  in  any  glass  and  say. 

What  moral  is  in  being  fair. 
O,  to  what  uses  shall  we  put 

The    wildweed-flower    that    simply 
blows  } 
And  is  there  any  moral  shut 

Within  the  bosom  of  the  rose  ? 


But  any  man  that  walks  the  mead. 

In  bud  or  blade,  or  bloom,  may  find. 
According  as  his  humors  lead, 

A  meaning  suited  to  his  mind. 
And  liberal  applications  lie 

In  Art  like  Nature,  dearest  friend; 
So  't  were  to  cramp  its  use,  if  I 

Should  hook  it  to  some  useful  end. 

L'ENVOI. 


Vou    shake    your    head.     A    random 
string 
Your  finer  female  sense  offends. 


Well — were  it  not  a  pleasant  thing 

To  fall  asleep  with  all  one's  friends; 
To  pass  with  all  our  social  ties 

To  silence  from  the  paths  of  men ; 
And  every  hundred  years  to  rise 

And  learn  the  world,  and  sleep  again : 
To  sleep  thro'  terms  of  mighty  wars, 

And  wake  on  science  grown  to  more, 
On  secrets  of  the  brain,  the  stars. 

As  wild  as  aught  of  fairy  lore  ; 
And  all  that  else  the  years  will  show, 

The  Poet-forms  of  stronger  hours, 
The  vast  Republics  that  may  grow, 

The  Federations  and  the  Powers ; 
Titanic  forces  taking  birth 

In  divers  seasons,  divers  climes; 
For  we  are  Ancients  of  the  earth, 

And  in  the  morning  of  the  times. 


So  sleeping,  so  aroused  from  sleep 
Thro'  sunny  decades  new  and  strange, 

Or  gay  quinquenniads  would  we  reap 
The    flower     and     quintessence    of 
change. 

3- 

Ah,  yet  would  I — and  would  I  might ! 

So  much  your  eyes  my  fancy  take — 
Be  still  the  first  to  leap  to  light 

That  I  might  kiss  those  eyes  awake  1 
For,  am  I  right  or  am  I  wrong. 

To  choose  your  own  you  did  not 
care  ; 
You'd  have  my  moral  from  the  song, 

And  I  will  take  my  pleasure  there  : 
And,  am  I  right  or  am  I  wrong, 

My  fancy,  ranging  thro'  and  thro', 
To  search  a  meaning  for  the  song. 

Perforce  will  still  revert  to  you  ; 
Nor  finds  a  closer  truth  than  this 

All-graceful  head,  so  richly  curl'd. 
And  evermore  a  costly  kiss 

The  prelude  to  some  brighter  world 


For  since  the  time  when  Adam  first 
Embraced  his  Eve  in  happy  hour. 

And  every  bird  of  Eden  burst 
In  carol,  every  bud  to  flower, 

What   eyes,  like  thine,  have    waken'd 
hopes .'' 


AMPHIOJV^. 


i<55 


What  lips,  like   thine,   so    sweetly 
join'd  ? 
Where  on  the  double  rosebud  droops 

The  fulness  of  the  pensive  mind  ; 
Which  all  too  dearly  self-involved, 

Yet  sleeps  a  dreamless  sleep  to  me  : 
A  sleep  by  kisses  undissolved, 

That  lets  thee  neither  hear  nor  see : 
But  break  it.     In  the  name  of  wife, 

And  in  the  rights  that  name  may  give, 
Are  clasp'd  the  moral  of  thy  life. 

And  that  for  which  I  care  to  live. 

EPILOGUE. 

So,  Lady  Flora,  take  my  lay, 

And,  if  you  find  a  meaning  there, 
O  whisper  to  your  glass,  and  say, 

"  What  wonder,   if  he    thinks    me 
fair.?" 
What  wonder  I  was  all  unwise, 

To  shape  the  song  for  your  delight. 
Like  long-tail'd  birds  of  Paradise, 

That  float  thro'  Heaven,  and  cannot 
light .? 
Or  old-world  trains,  upheld  at  court 

By  Cupid-boys  of  blooming  hue — 
But  take  it — earnest  wed  with  sport, 

And  either  sacred  unto  you. 


AMPHION. 

My  father  left  a  park  to  me, 

But  it  is  wild  and  barren, 
A  garden  too  with  scarce  a  tree 

And  waster  than  a  warren  : 
Yet  say  the  neighbors  when  they  call. 

It  is  not  bad  but  good  land, 
And  in  it  is  the  germ  of  all 

That  grows  within  the  woodland. 

O  had  I  lived  when  song  was  great 

In  days  of  old  Amphion, 
And  ta'en  my  fiddle  to  the  gate, 

Nor  cared  for  seed  or  scion  I 
And  had  I  lived  when  song  was  great, 

And  legs  of  trees  were  limber. 
And  ta'en  my  fiddle  to  the  gate, 

And  fiddled  in  the  timber  I 

'T  is  said  he  had  a  tuneful  tongue, 
Such  happy  intonation, 


Wherever  he  sat  down  and  sung 

He  left  a  small  plantation  ; 
Wherever  in  a  lonely  grove 

He  set  up  his  forlorn  pipes, 
The  gouty  oak  began  to  move. 

And  flounder  into  hornpipes. 

The  mountain  stirr'd  its  bushy  crown, 

And,  as  tradition  teaches. 
Young  ashes  pirouetted  down 

Coquetting  with  young  beeches; 
And  briony-vine  and  ivy-wreath 

Ran  forward  to  his  rhyming. 
And  from  the  valleys  underneath 

Came  little  copses  climbing. 

The  birch-tree  swang  her  fragrant  hair, 

The  bramble  cast  her  berry. 
The  gm  within  the  juniper 

Began  to  make  him  merry, 
The  poplars,  in  long  order  due, 

With  cypress  promenaded, 
The  shock-head  willows  two  and  two 

By  rivers  gallopaded. 

Came  wet-shot  alder  from  the  wave, 

Came  yews,  a  dismal  coterie  ; 
Each  pluck'd  his  one  foot  from  the 
grave, 

Poussetting  with  a  sloe-tree : 
Old  elms  came  breaking  from  the  vine, 

The  vine  stream'd  out  to  follow, 
And,  sweating  rosin,  plump'd  the  pine 

From  many  a  cloudy  hollow. 

And  wasn't  it  a  sight  to  see, 

When,  ere  his  song  was  ended. 
Like  some  great  landslip,  tree  by  tree. 

The  country-side  descended ; 
And  shepherds  from    the    mountain- 
eaves  [frighten'd, 

Look'd     down,     half-pleased,     half- 
As  dash'd  about  the  drunken  leaves 

The  random  sunshine  lighten'd  i 

O,  nature  first  was  fresh  to  men, 

And  wanton  without  measure ; 
So  youthful  and  so  flexile  then, 

You  moved  her  at  your  pleasure. 
Twang   out,    my   fiddle  !     shake    the 
twigs  ! 

And  make  her  dance  attendance ; 
Blow,  flute,  and  sHr  the  stiff-set  sprigsj 

And  scirrhous  roots  and  tendons. 


io6 


S//;:  GALA //AD. 


■Tis  vain  !  in  such  a  brassy  age 

I  could  not  move  a  thistle: 
The  very  sparrows  in  the  hedg 

Scarce  answer  to  my  whistle : 
Or  at  the  most,  when  three-parts-sick 

With  strumming  and  with  scraping, 
A  jackass  heehaws  from  the  rick, 

The  passive  oxen  gaping. 

But  what  is  that  I  hear  ?  a  sound 

Like  sleepy  counsel  pleading  : 
O  Lord  ! — 't  is  in  my  neighbor's  ground, 

The  modern  Muses  reading. 
They  read  Botanic  Treatises, 

And  Works  on  Gardening  through 
there, 
And  Methods  of  transplanting  trees, 

To  look  as  if  they  grew  there. 

The  wither'd  Misses !  how  they  prose 

O'er  books  of  travell'd  seamen. 
And  show  you  slips  of  all  that  grows 

From  England  to  Van  Diemen. 
They  read  in  arbors  dipt  and  cut. 

And  alleys,  faded  places. 
By  squares  of  tropic  summer  shut 

And  warm'd  in  crystal  cases. 

But  these,  tho'  fed  with  careful  dirt. 

Are  neither  green  nor  sappy ; 
Half-conscious  of  the  garden-squirt, 

The  spindlings  look  unhappy. 
Better  to  me  the  meanest  weed 

That  blows  upon  its  mountain, 
The  vilest  herb  that  runs  to  seed 

Beside  its  native  fountain. 

And  I  mu«t  work  thro'  months  of  toil, 

And  years  of  cultivation, 
Upon  my  proper  patch  of  soil 

To  grow  my  own  plantation. 
I'll  take  the  showers  as  they  fall,    - — 

I  will  not  vex  my  bosom ; 
Enough  if  at  the  end  of  all 

A  little  garden  blossom. 


ST.  AGNES.  ^ 

Deep  on  the  convent-roof  the  snows 
Are  sparkling  to  the  moon  : 

My  breath  ta heaven  like  vapor  goes: 
May  my  soul  follow  soon  1 


The  shadows  of  the  convent-towers 

Slant  dou'n  the  snowy  sward, 
Still  creeping  with  the  creeping  hours 

That  lead  me  to  my  Lord  : 
Make  Thou  mv  .spirit  pure  and  clear 

As  are  the  frosty  skies, 
Or  this  first  sriowdrop  of  the  year 

That  in  my  bosom  lies. 

As  the^e  white  robes  are  soiled  and 
dark, 

To  yonder  shining  ground ; 
As  this  pale  taper's  earthly  spark. 

To  yonder  argent  round ; 
So  shows  my  soul  before  the  Lamb, 

My  spirit  before  Thee ; 
So  in  mine  earthly  house  I  am. 
-To  that  I  hope  to  be. 
Break  up  the  heavens,  O  Lord !  and  far, 

Thro'  all  yon  starlight  keen, 
Draw  me,  thy  bride,  a  glittering  star» 

In  raiment  white  and  clean. 

He  lifts  me  to  the  golden  doors ; 

The  flashes  come  and  go  ; 
All  heaven  bursts  her  starry  floors, 

And  strews  her  lights  below. 
And  deepens  on  and  up  !  the  gates 

Roll  back,  and  far  within 
For    me    the    Heavenly    Bridegroom 
waits. 

To  make  me  pure  of  sin. 
The  sabbaths  of  Eternity, 

One  sabbath  deep  and  wide — 
A  light  upon  the  shining  sea — 

The  Bridegroom  with  his  bride  I 


SIR  GALAHAD. 

My  good  blade  carves  the -casg.ues^of 
men 

My  tough  lance  thrusteth  sure. 
My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten, 

Because  my  heart  is  pure. 
The  shattering  trumpet  shrilleth  high, 

The  hard  brands  shiver  on  the  steel, 
The  splinter'd  spear-shafts  crack  and 

The  horse  and  rider  reel : 
They  reel,  they  roll  in  clanging,  lists. 
And  when  the  tide  of  combat  stands, 


"  J  he  shrill  bell  rings,  the  censer  swings.'* 
Sir  Galahad. 


EDWARD  GI^AV. 


107 


Perfume  and  flowers  fall  in  showers, 
That  lightly  rain  from  ladies'  hands. 

How  sweet  are  looks  that  ladies  bend 

On  whom  their  favors  fall ! 
For  them  I  battle  to  the  end, 

To  save  from  shame  and  thrall : 
But  all  my  heart  is  drawn  above, 

My  knees  are  bow'd  in  crypt  and 
shrine  ; 
I  never, fglLtheJkjsaJlf-lcwie, — 
.  Nor  maiden^-iraird  in  mine. 
More  bounteous  aspects  on  me  beam, 

Me   mightier  transports   move   and 

/      thrill;  

i%o  keep  I  fair  thro'  faith  and  prayer 
\  A  virgin  heart  in  work  and  will. 

"When  down  the  stormy  crescent  goes, 

A  light  before  me  swims, 
Between  dark  stems  the  forest  glows, 

I  hear  a  noise  of  hymns  : 
Then  by  some  secret  shrine  I  ride: 

I  hear  a  vpice,  but  none  are  there  : 
The  stalls  are  void,  the  doors  are  wide, 

The  tapers  burning  fair. 
Fair  gleams  the  snowy  altar-cloth. 

The  silver  vessels  sparkle  clean, 
The  shrill  bell  rings,  the  censer  swings. 

And  solemn  chants  resound  between, 

Sometimes  on  lonely  mountain-meres 

I  find  a  magic  bark; 
I  leap  on  board :  no  helmsmajLateers : 

I  float  till  all  is  dark. 
A  gentle  sound,  an  awful  light ! 

Three  angels  bear  the  holy  Grail: 
With  folded  feet,  in  stoles  of  white, 

.On  sleeping  wings  they  sail. 
Ah,  blessed  vision  !  blood  of  God ! 

My'spirit  beats  her  mortal  bars, 
As  down  dark  tides  the  glory  slides, 

And  star-like  mingles  with  the  stars. 

When  on  my  goodlyjcharger  borne 

Thro'  dreaming  towns  T  go. 
The  cock  crows    ere   the   Christmas 
morn. 
The  streets  are  dumb  with  snow. 
The  tempest  crackles  on  the  leads, 
And,  ringing,  spins  from  brand  and 
mail : 


But  o'er  the  cUrk  a  glory  spreads, 

And  gilds  the  drTving  hail. 
I  leave  the  plain,  I  climb  the  height; 

No  branchy  thicket  shelter  yields  : 
But  blessed  forms  in  whistling  storms 

Fly  o'er  waste  fens  and  windy  fields, 

A  maiden  knight — to  me  is  given 

Such  hope,  I  know  not  fear  ; 
I  yearn  to  breathe  the  airs  of  heaven 

That  often  meet  me  here. 
I  muse  on  joy  that  will  not  cease, 

Pur^  spaces  clothed  in  living  beams. 
Pure  lijies  of  eternal  peac«, 

W^ose  odors  haunt  my  dreams ; 
And,  stricken  by  an  angel's  hand, 

This  mortal  armor,  that  I  v^ear, 
This  weight  and  size,  this   heart  and 
eyes. 

Are  touch'd,  are  turn'd  to  finest  air. 

The  clouds  are  broken  in  the  sky, 

And  thro'  the  mountain-walls 
A  rolling  organ-harmony 
.  Swells  up,  and  shakes  and  falls. 
Then  move  the  trees,  the  copses  nod, 

Wings  flutter,  voices  hover  clear : 
"  O  just  and  faithful  knight  of  God : 

Ride  on  !  the  prize  is  near." 
So  pass  I  hostel,  hall,  and  grange ; 

By  bridge  and  ford,  by  park  and  pale, 
All-arm'd  I  ride,  whate'er  betide, 

Until  I  find  the  holy  Grail. 


EDWARD   GRAY. 

Sweet   Emma   Moreland   of    yonder 

town 

Met  me  walking  on  yonder  way, 

"And  have  you  lost  your  heart  ?"  she 

said:  [Gray.?" 

"  And  are  you  married  yet,  Edward 

Sweet  Emma  Moreland  spoke  to  mc  : 
Bitterly  weeping  I  turn'd  away  : 

"  Sweet  Emma  Moreland,  love  no  more 
Can  touch  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray. 

**  Ellen  Adair  she  loved  me  well, 
Against  her  father's   and  mother's 
will: 

To-day  I  sat  for  an  hour  and  wept, 
By  Ellen's  grave,  on  the  windy  hill. 


loS 


WILL   WATERPROOF'S  LYRICAL  MONOLOGUE, 


**Shy  she  was,  and  I  thought  her  cold  ; 

Thought  her  proud,  and  fled  over  the 
sea  J 
Fill'd  I  was  with  folly  and  spite, 

When  Ellen  Adair  was  dying  for  me. 

'Cruel,  cruel  the  words  I  said  ! 

Cruelly  came  they  back  to-day : 
You're  too  slight  and  fickle,'  I'said', 

'  To   trouble   the   heart  of   Edward 
Gray.' 

"There  I  put  my  face  in  the  grass — 
Whisper'd,  '  Listen  to  my  despair: 

I  repent  me  of  all  I  did; 

Speak  a  little,  Ellen  Adair!' 

*  Then  I  took  a  pencil,  and  wrote 
On  the  mossy  stone,  as  I  lay, 

'Here  lies  the  body  of  Ellen  Adair  : 
And  here  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray  I' 

**  Love  may  come,  and  love  may  go, 
And  fly,  like  a  bird,  from  tree   to 
tree ; 

But  I  will  love  no  more,  no  more, 
Till  Ellen  Adair  comes  back  to  me. 

*'  Bitterly  wept  T  over  the  stone  : 
Bitterly  weeping  I  turn'd  away  : 

There  lies  the  body  of  Ellen  Adair! 
And    there    the   heart   of    Edward 
Gray !  " 


WILL    WATERPROOF'S     LYRI- 
CAL MONOLOGUE. 

MADE   AT   THE   COCK. 

O  PLUMP  head-waiter  at  The  Cock, 

To  which  I  must  resort, 
How  goes  the  time  ?     'Tis  five  o'clock. 

Go  fetch  a  pint  of  port  : 
But  let  it  not  be  such  as  that 

You  set  before  chance-comers, 
But  such  whose  father-grape  grew  fat 

On  Lusitanian  summers. 

No  vain  libation  to  the  Muse, 

But  may  she  still  be  kind. 
And  whisper  lovely  words,  and  use 

Her  influence  on  the  mind. 


To  make  me  write  my  random  rhymes^ 

Ere  they  be  half-forgotten  ; 
Nor  add  and  alter,  many  times. 

Till  all  be  ripe  and  rotten. 

I  pledge  her,  and  she  comes  and  dips 

Her  laurel  in  the  wine. 
And  lays  it  thrice  upon  my  lips. 

These  favor'd  lips  of  mine  ; 
Until  the  charm  have  power  to  make 

New  life-blood  warm  the  bosom, 
And  barren  commonplaces  break 

In  full  and  kindly  blossom. 

I  pledge  her  silent  at  the  board  ; 

Her  gradual  fingers  stoal 
And  touch  upon  the  masier-chord 

Of  all  I  felt  and  feel. 
Old  wishes,  ghosts  of  broken  plans, 

And  phantom  hopes  assemble  ; 
And  that  child's  heart  within  the  man's 

Begins  to  move  and  tremble. 

Thro'  many  an  hour  of  summer  suns 

By  many  pleasant  ways, 
Against  its  fountain  upward  runs         j 

The  current  of  my  days  •  m 

I  kiss  the  lips  I  once  have  kiss'd;        ? 

The  gas-light  wavers  dimmer  ; 
And  softly  thro'  a  vinous  mist. 

My  college  friendships  glimmer. 

I  grow  in  worth,  and  wit,  and  sense, 

Unboding  critic-pen, 
Or  that  eternal  want  of  pence, 

Which  vexes  public  men, 
Who  hold  their  hands  to  all,  and  cry 

For  that  which  all  deny  them, — 
Who  sweep  the  crossings,  wet  or  dry. 

And  all  the  world  go  by  them. 

Ah  yet,  tho'  all  the  world  forsake,    ■  ^ 

Tho'  fortune  clip  my  wings,  ^^ 

I  will  not  cramp  my  heart,  nor  take 

Half-views  of  men  and  things. 
Let  Whig  and  Tory  stir  their  blood ; 

There  must  be  stormy  weather ; 
But  for  some  true  result  of  good 

All  parties  work  together. 

Let  there  be  thistles,  there  are  grapes-, 
If  old  things,  there  are  new; 

Ten  thousand  broken  lights  and  shape% 
Yet  glimpses  of  the  true. 


m 


WILL  WATERPROOF'S  LYRICAL  MONOLOGUE. 


'.09 


Let  raffs  be  rife  in  prose  and  rhyme, 
We  lack  not  rhymes  and  reasons, 

As  on  this  whirligig  of  Time 
We  circle  with  the  seasons. 

This  earth  is  rich  in  man  and  maid; 

With  fair  horizons  bound ! 
This   whole  wide   earth  of  light  and 
shade 

Comes  out,  a  perfect  round. 
High  over  roaring  Temple-bar, 

And,  set  in  Heaven's  third  story, 
I  look  at  all  things  as  they  are. 

But  thro'  a  kind  of  glory. 


Head-waiter,  honor'd  by  the  guest 

Half-mused,  or  reeling-ripe, 
The  pint,   you  brought  me,  was  the 
l)est 

That  ever  came  from  pipe. 
But  tho'  the  port  surpasses  praise, 

My  nerves  have  dealt  with  stiffer. 
Is  there  some  magic  in  the  place.-* 

Or  do  my  peptics  differ? 

Yox  since  I  came  to  live  and  learn, 

No  pint  of  white  or  red 
Had  ever  half  the  power  to  turn 

This  wheel  within  my  head, 
Which  bears  a  season'd  brain  about, 

Unsubject  to  confusion, 
Tho'  soak'd  and  saturate,  out  and  out. 

Thro'  every  convolution. 

For  I  am  of  a  numerous  house, 

With  many  kinsmen  gay. 
Where  long  and  largely  we  carouse. 

As  who  shall  say  me  nay: 
Each  month,  a  birthday  coming  on, 

We  drink  defying  trouble, 
Or  sometimes  two  would  meet  in  one, 

And  then  we  drank  it  double; 

Whether  the  vintage,  yet  unkept. 

Had  relish  fiery-new. 
Or,  elbow-d«ep  in  sawdust,  slept. 

As  old  as  Waterloo  ; 
Or  stow'd  (when  classic  Canning  died) 

In  musty  bins  and  chambers, 
Had  cast  upon  its  crusty  side 

The  gloom  of  ten  Decembers. 


The  Muse,  the  jolly  Muse,  it  is! 

She  answer'd  to  my  call, 
She  changes  with  that  mood  or  this, 

Is  all-in-all  to  all  : 
She  lit  the  spark  within  my  throat, 

To  make  my  blood  run  quicker. 
Used  all  her  fiery  will,  and  smote 

Her  life  into  the  liquor. 

And  hence  this  halo  lives  about 

The  waiter's  hands,  that  reach 
To  each  his  perfect  pint  of  stout, 

His  proper  chop  to  each. 
He  looks  not  like  the  common  breed 

That  with  the  napkin  dally ; 
I  think  he  came  like  Ganymede, 

From  some  delightful  valley. 

The  Cock  was  of  a  larger  egg 

Than  modern  poultry  drop, 
Stept  forward  on  a  firmer  leg. 

And  cramm'd  a  plumper  crop; 
Upon  an  ampler  dunghill  trod, 

Crow'd  lustier  late  and  early, 
Sipt  wine  from  silver,  praising  God, 

And  raked  in  golden  barley. 

A  private  life  was  all  his  joy. 

Till  in  a  court  he  saw 
A  something-pottle-bodied  boy. 

That  knuckled  at  the  taw  : 
He  stoop'd  and  clutch'd  him,  fair  and 
good 

Flew  over  roof  and  casement : 
His  brothers  of  the  weather  stood 

Stock-still  for  sheer  amazement. 

But    he,    by    farmstead,   thorpe,    and 
spire, 

And  follow'd  with  acclaims^ 
A  sign  to  many  a  staring  shire. 

Came  crowing  over  Thames. 
Right  down  by  smoky  Paul's  they  bore 

Till,  where  the  street  grows  straiter, 
One  fix'd  forever  at  the  door. 

And  one  became  hegid-waiter. 


But  whither  would  my  fancy  go  ? 

How  out  of  place  she  makes 
The  violet  of  a  legend  blow 

Among  the  chops  and  steaks  f 


no 


WILL  WATERPROOF'S  LYRICAL  MONOLOGUE. 


'Tis  but  a  steward  of  the  can, 

One  shade  more  plump  than  com- 
mon; 

As  just  and  mere  a  serving-man 
As  any,  born  of  woman. 

I  ranged  too  high:   what  draws  me 
down 

Into  the  common  day  ? 
Is  it  the  weight  of  that  half-crown, 

Which  I  shall  have  to  pay  ? 
For,  something  duller  than  at  first, 

Nor  wholly  comfortable, 
I  sit  (my  empty  glass  reversed). 

And  thrumming  on  the  table  : 

Half  fearful  that,  with  self  at  strife^; 

I  take  myself  to  task ; 
Lest  of  the  fulness  of  my  life 

I  leave  an  empty  flask: 
For  I  had  hope,  by  something  rare, 

To  prove  myself  a  poet ; 
But,  while  I  plan  and  plan,  my  hair 

Is  gray  before  I  know  it. 

So  fares  it  since  the  years  began, 

Till  they  be  gather'd  up; 
The  truth,  that  flies  the  flowing  can, 

Will  haunt  the  vacant  cup: 
And  others'  follies  teach  us  not. 

Nor  much  their  wisdom  teaches ; 
And  most,  of  sterling  worth,  is  what 

Our  own  experience  preaches. 

Ah,  let  the  rusty  theme  alone ! 

We  know  not  what  we  know. 
But  for  my  pleasant  hour,  'tis  gone, 

'Tis  gone,  and  let  it  go. 
'Tis  gone :  a  thousand  such  have  slipt 

Away  from  my  embraces. 
And  fall'n  into  the  dusty  crypt 

Of  darken'd  forms  and  faces. 

Go,  therefore,  thou  !  thy  betters  went 

Long  since,  and  came  no  more: 
With  peals  of  genial  .clamor  sent 

From  many  a  tavern-door, 
With  twisted  quirks  and  happy  hits. 

From  misty  men  of  letters ; 
The  tavern-hours  of  mighty  wits, — 

Thine  elders  and  thy  betters. 


Hours,  when  the   Poet's  words    and 
looks 

Had  yet  their  native  glow : 
Not  yet  the  fear  of  little  books 

Had  made  him  talk  for  show ; 
But,  all  his  vast  heart  sherris-warm'd. 

He  flash'd  his  random  speeches ; 
Ere  days,  that  deal  in  ana,  swarm'd. 

His  literary  leeches. 

So  mix  forever  with  the  past, 

Like  all  good  things  on  earth  ! 
For  should  I  prize  thee,  couldst  thou 
last. 

At  half  thy  real  worth  ? 
I   hold   it  good,   good   things  should 
pass : 

With  time  I  will  not  quarrel :  i^ 

It  is  but  yonder  empty  glass  « 

That  makes  me  maudlin-moral.        1 


Head  waiter  of  the  chop-house  here, 

To  which  I  must  resort, 
I  too  must  part;  I  hold  thee  dear 

For  this  good  pint  of  port. 
For  this,  thou   shalt   from   all   things 
suck 

Marrow  of  mirth  and  laughter ; 
And,   wheresoe'er    thou    move,    good 
luck 

Shall  fling  her  old  shoe  after. 

But  thou  wilt  never  move  from  hence. 

The  sphere  thy  fate  allots : 
Thy  latter  days  increased  with  pence 

Go  down  among  the  pots : 
Thou  battenest  by  the  greasy  gleam 

In  haunts  of  hungry  sinners, 
Old  boxes,  larded  with  the  steam 

Of  thirty  thousand  dinners. 

We  fret,  we  fume,  would    shift    our 
skins, 

Would  quarrel  with  our  lot: 
Thy  care  is,  under  polish'd  tins, 

To  serve  the  hot-and-hot; 
To  come  and  go,  and  come  again. 

Returning  like  the  pewit, 
And  watch'd  by  silent  gentlemen, 

That  trifle  with  the  cruet. 


TO  E.  L.   ON  HIS  TRAVELS  IN  GREECE. 


Ill 


Live  long,  ere  from  thy  topmost  head 

The  thick-set  hazel  dies ; 
Long,  ere  the  hateful  crow  shall  tread 

The  corners  of  thine  eyes  : 
Live  long,  nor  feel  in  head  or  chest 

Our  changeful  equinoxes, 
Till   mellow    Death,   like    some    late 
guest, 

Shall  call  thee  from  the  boxes. 

But  when  he  calls,  and  thou  shalt  cease 

To  pace  the  gritted  floor. 
And,  laying  down  an  unctuous  lease 

Of  life,  shalt  earn  no  more  : 
Nc'  carved  cross-bones,  the   types  of 
Death, 

Shall  show  thee  past  to  Heaven  : 
But   carved    cross-pipes,   and,   under- 
neath, 

A  pint-pot,  neatly  graven. 


TO , 

AFTER  READING  A  LIFE  AND  LETTERS. 

"  Cursed  be  he  that  moves  my  bones." 

Shakespeare' s  Epitaph. 

You  might  have  v/on  the  Poet's  name. 
If  such  be  worth  the  winning  now. 
And  gain'd  a  laurel  for  your  brow 

Of  sounder  lea£than  I  can  claim  ; 

But  you  have  made  the  wiser  choice, 
A 'life  that  moves  to  gracious  ends 
Thro'  troops  of  unrecording  friends, 

A  deedful  life,  a  silent  voice  ; 

And   you  have   miss'd  the  irreverent 
doom 
Of  those  that  wear  the  Poet's  crown  : 
Hereafter,  neither   knave  nor  clown 

Shall  hold  their  orgies  at  your  tomb. 

For  now  the  poet  cannot  die 
Nor  leave  his  music  as  of  old. 
But  round  him  ere  he  scarce  be  cold 

Begins  the  scandal  and  the  cry  : 

"Proclaim   the   faults    he   would   not 
show : 
Break   lock  and  seal:    Betray   the 

trust : 
Keep  nothing  sacred :  'tis  but  just 
The  many-headed  beast  should  know." 


Ah  shameless !  for  he  did  but  sing 
A   song   that   pleased   us  from    its 

worth  ; 
No  public  life  was  his  on  earth, 

No  blazon'd  statesman  he,  nor  king. 

He  gave  the  people  of  his  best : 

His  worst  he  kept,  his  best  he  gave.. 
My   Shakespeare's   curse  on  clown 
and  knave 

Who  will  not  let  his  ashes  rest ! 

Who  make  it  seem  more  sweet  to  be 
The  little  life  of  bank  and  brier, 
The  bird  that  pipes  his  lone  desire 

And  dies  unheard  within  his  tree, 

Than  he  that  warbles  long  and  loud 
And  drops  at  Glory's  temple-gates. 
For  whom  the  carrion  vulture  waits 

To  tear  his  heart  before  the  crowd  ! 


TO  E.  L.,  ON  HIS  TRAVELS  IN 
GREECE. 

"Illyrian  woodlands,  echoing  falls 
Of  water,  sheets  of  summer  glass. 
The  long  divine  Peneian  pass. 
The  vast  Akrokeraunian  walls, 
Tomohrit,  Athos,  all  things  fair. 
With  such  a  pencil,  such  a  pen, 
You  shadow  forth  to  distant  men, 
I  read  and  felt  that  I  was  there  : 
And  trust  me  while  I  turn'd  the  page, 
And   track'd  you  still    on    classic 

ground, 
I  grew  in  gladness  till  I  found 
My  spirits  in  the  golden  age. 
For  me  the  torrent  ever  pour'd 

And  glisten'd — here  and  there  ?.Ione 
The   broad-limb'd  Gods  at  random 
thrown 
By  fountain-urns  ; — and  Naiads  oar'd 
A  glimmering  shoulder  under  gloom 
Of  cavern  pillars ;  on  the  swell 
The  silver  illy  heaved  and  fell  ; 
And  many  a  slope  was  rich  in  bloom 
From  him  that  on  the  mountain  lea 
By  dancing  rivulets   fed   his   flocks, 
To  him  who  sat  upon  the  rocks, 
And  fluted  to  the  morning  sea. 


LADY  CLARE 


LADY  CLARE. 

It  was  the  time  when  lilies  blow, 
And  clouds  are  highest  up  in  air, 

t.ord  Ronald  brought  a  lily-white  doe 
To  give  his  cousin,  Lady  Clare. 

I  trow  they  did  not  part  in  scorn  : 
Lovers  long-betroth'd  were  the    : 

They  too  will  wed  the  morrow  morn : 
God's  blessing  on  the  day  ! 

"  He  does  not  love  me  for  my  birth, 
Nor  for  my  lands  so  broad  and  fair: 

He  loves  me  for  my  own  true  worth, 
And  that  is  well,"  said  Lady  Clare. 

In  there  came  old  Alice  the  nurse. 
Said,  "Who  was  this  that  went  from 
thee  ? " 

**  It  was  my  cousin,"  said  Lady  Clare, 
"  To-morrow  he  weds  with  me." 

"O  God  be  thank'd  ! "  said  Alice  the 
nurse, 
*'  That  all  comes  round  so  just  and 
fair  : 
Lord  Ronald  is  heir  of  all  your  lands. 
And  you  are  not  the  Lady  Clare." 

"Are  ye  out  of  your  mind,  my  nurse, 
my  nurse  ? " 
Said  Lady  Clare,  "  that  ye  speak  so 
wild  ? " 
"  As   God's  above,"    said    Alice   the 
nurse, 
"I   speak  the   truth:    you   are   my 
child. 

"The  old  Earl's  daughter  died  at  my 
breast ; 

I  speak  the  truth,  as  I  live  by  bread ! 
I  buried  her  like  my  own  sweet  child, 

And  put  my  child  in  her  stead." 

"  Falsely,  falsely  have  ye  done, 

O  mother,"    she   said,    "  if   this   be 
true. 

To  keep  the  best  man  under  the  sun 
So  many  years  from  his  due." 

Nay  now,  my  child,"  said  Alice  the 

nurse, 
"  But  keep  the  secret  for  your  life, 
And  all  you  have  will  be  Lord  Ronald's, 
When  you  are  man  and  wife." 


"  If  I'm  a  beggar  born,"  she  said, 
"  I  will  speak  out,  for  I  dare  not  lir^ 

Pull  off,  pull  off,  the  broach  of  gold. 
And  fling  the  diamond  necklace  by  " 

"  Nay  now,  my  child,"  said  Alice   the 
nurse, 

"  But  keep  the  secret  all  ye  can." 
She  said  "Not  so:  but  I  will  know 

If  there  be  any  faith  in  man." 

*  Nay  now,  what   faith  1  "  said   Alice 
the  nurse, 
"The   man    will    cleave    unto    his 
right." 
"And    he    shall    have   it,"    the   lady 
replied, 
"  Tho'  I  should  die  to-night." 

"Yet   give  one   kiss   to  your  mother 
dear ! 

Alas,  my  child,  I  sinn'd  for  thee." 
"  O  mother,  mother,  mother,"  she  said, 

"  So  strange  it  seems  to  me, 

"  Yet  here's  a  kiss  for  my  mother  dear, 
My  mother  dear,  if  this  be  so. 

And  lay  your  hand  upon  my  head. 
And  bless  me,  mother,  ere  I  go." 

She  clad  herself  in  a  russet  gown. 
She  was  no  longer  Lady  Clare  : 

She  went  by  dale,  and  she  went  by 
down, 
W^ith  a  single  rose  in  her  hair. 

The  lily-white  doe  Lord  Ronald  had 
brought 

Leapt  up  from  where  she  lay, 
Dropt  her  head  in  the  maiden's  hand, 

And  follow'd  her  all  the  way. 

Down  stept    Lord   Ronald  from  his 
tower : 
"  O   Lady  Clare,   you  shame  your 
worth ! 
Why  come  you  drest  like  a  village 
maid, 
That  are  the  flower  of  the  earth  ? " 

"  If  I  come  drest  like  a  village  aiaid, 
I  am  but  as  my  fortunes  are  : 

I  am  a  beggar  born,"  she  said, 
"  And  not  the  Lady  Clare." 


THE  LORD  OF  BURLEIGH. 


"3 


"  Play    me    no    tricks,"     said     Lord 
Ronald, 
**  For    I   am  yours  in  word  and   in 
deed. 
Play  me  no  tricks,"  said  Lord  Ronald, 
"  Your  riddle  is  hard  to  read." 

O  and  proudly  stood  she  up  ! 

Her  heart  within  her  did  not  fail : 
She  look'd  into  Lord  Ronald's  eyes, 

And  told  him  all  her  nurse's  tale. 

He  laugh'd  a  laugh  of  merry  scorn: 
He  turn'd,  and  kiss'd  her  where  she 
stood : 

**  If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born. 
And  I,"  said  he,  "  the  next  in  blood — 

"  If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born, 
And  I,"  said  he,  "the  lawful  heir, 

We  two  will  wed  to-morrow  morn. 
And  you  shall  still  be  Lady  Clare." 


THE  LORD  OF  BURLEIGH. 

In  her  ear  he  whispers  gayly, 

"  If  my  heart  by  signs  can  tell. 
Maiden,  I  have  watched  thee  daily, 

And  I  think  thou  lov'st  me  well." 
She  replies,  in  accents  fainter, 
j       *'  There  is  none  I  love  like  thee." 
I  He  is  but  a  landscape-painter, 
j       And  a  village  maiden  she. 
He  to  lips,  that  fondly  falter, 

Presses  his  without  reproof; 
Leads  her  to  tlic  village  altar, 

And  they  leave  her  father's  roof. 
"  I  can  make  no  marriage  present ; 

Little  can  I  give  my  wife. 
Love  will  mak&  our  cottage  pleasant, 

And  I  love  thee  more  than  life." 
They  by  parks  and  lodges  going 

See  the  lordly  castles  stand  ; 
Summer  woods,  about  them  blowing, 

Made  a  murmur  in  the  land. 
From  deep  thought  himself  he  rouses, 

Says  to  her  that  loves  him  well, 
"  Let  us  see  these  handsome  houses 

Where  the  wealthy  nobles  dwell." 
So  she  goes  by  him  attended, 

Hears  him  lovingly  converse. 
Sees  whatever  fair  and  splendid 


Lay  betwixt  his  home  and  hers  ; 
Parks  with  oak  and  chestnut  shady, 

Parks  and  order'd  gardens  great, 
Ancient  homes  of  lord  and  lady, 

Built  for  pleasure  and  for  state. 
All  he  shows  her  makes  him  dearer  : 

Evermore  she  seems  to  gaze 
On  that  cottage  growing  nearer. 

Where  they  twain  will  spend  theif 
days. 
O  but  she  will  love  him  truly  ! 

He  shall  have  a  cheerful  home ; 
She  will  order  all  things  duly, 

When  beneath  his  roof  they  come. 
Thus  her  heart  rejoices  greatly, 

Till  a  gateway  she  discerns 
With  arniorial  bearings  stately. 

And  beneath  the  gate  she  turns ; 
Sees  a  mansion  more  majestic 

Than  all  those  she  saw  before : 
Many  a  gallant  gay  domestic 

Bows  before  him  at  the  door. 
And  they  speak  in  gentle  murmur, 

When  they  answer  to  his  call, 
While  he  treads  with  footstep  firmer, 

Leading  on  from  hall  to  hall. 
And,  while  now  she  wonders  blindly, 

Nor  the  meaning  can  divine, 
Proudly  turns  he  round  and  kindly, 

"All  of  this  is  mine  and  thine." 
Here  hs  lives  in  state  and  bounty, 

Lord  of  Burleigh,  fair  and  free, 
'Not  a  lord  in  all  the  county 

Is  so  great  a  lord  as  he. 
All  at  once  the  color  flushes 

Her  sweet  face  from  brow  to  chin : 
As  it  were  with  shame  she  blushes. 

And  her  spirit  changed  within. 
Then  her  countennance  all  over 

Pale  again  as  death  did  prove  ; 
But  he  clasp'd  her  like  a  lover. 

And  he  cheer'd  her  soul  with  love. 
So  she  strove  against  her  weakness, 

Tho'  at  times  her  spirits  sank  : 
Shaped  her  heart  with  woman's  meek- 
ness 

To  all  duties  of  her  rank  : 
And  a  gentle  consort  made  he. 

And  her  gentle  mind  was  such 
That  she  grew  a  noble  lady. 

And  the  people  loved  her  much- 


114 


A  FAREWELL. 


But  a  trouble  weigh'd  upon  her, 

And  perplex'd  her,  night  and  morn, 
With  the  burden  of  an  honor 

Unto  which  she  was  not  born. 
Faint  she  grew,  and  ever  fainter, 

As  she  murmur'd,  "  O,  that  he 
Were     once    more     that     landscape- 
painter, 

Which  did  win  my  heart  from  me  !  " 
So   she   droop'd   and   droop'd  before 
him, 

Fading  slowly  from  his  side  : 
Three  fair  children  first  she  bore  him, 

Then  before  her  time  she  died. 
Weeping,  weeping  late  and  early, 

Walking  up  and  pacing  down. 
Deeply  mourn'd  the  Lord  of  Burleigh, 

Burleigh-house  by  Stamford-town. 
And  he  came  to  look  upon  her, 

And  he  look'd  at  her  and  said, 
"  Bring  the  dress  and  put  it  on  her. 

That  she  wore  when  she  was  wed." 
Then  her  people,  softly  treading, 

Bore  to  earth  her  body,  drest 
In  the  dress  that  she  was  wed  in, 

That  her  spirit  might  have  rest. 


SIR  LAUNCELOT  AND  QUEEN 
GUINEVERE. 

A  FRAGMENT. 

Like  souls  that  balance  joy  and  pain, 
With  tears  and  smiles  from  heaven 

again 
The  maiden  Spring  upon  the  plain 
Came  in  a  sunlit  fall  of  rain. 

In  crystal  vapor  everywhere 
Blue  isles  of  heaven  laugh'd  between. 
And,  far  in  forest-deep^  unseen, 
The  topmost  elm-tree  gather'd  green 

From  draughts  of  balmy  air. 

Sometimes  the  linnet  piped  his  song  : 
Sometimes  the  throstle  whistled  strong: 
Sometimes  the  sparhawkjwheel'd  along, 
Hush'd  all  the  groves  from  fear  of 
wrong  : 
By  grassy  capes  with  fuller  sound 
In  curves  the  yellowing  river  ran, 


And  drooping  chestnut-buds  began 
To  spread  into  the  perfect  fan, 
Above  the  teeming  ground. 

Then,  in  the  boyhood  of  the  year, 
Sir  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guinevere 
Rode  thro'  the  coverts  of  the  deer, 
With  blissful  treble  ringing  clear. 

She  seem'd  a  part  of  joyous  Spring? 
A  grown  of  grass-green  silk  she  wore, 
Buckled  with  golden  clasps  before^ 
A  light-green  tuft  of  plumes  she  bore 

Closed  in  a  golden  ring. 

Now  on  some  twisted  ivy-net. 

Now  by  some  tinkling  rivulet, 

In  mosses  mixt  with  violet 

Her  cream-white  mule  his  pastern  set ; 

And  fleeter  now  she  skimm'd  th« 
plains 
Than  she  whose  elfin  pranccr  springs 
By  night  to  eery  warblings. 
When  all  the  glimmering    moori'sin^ 
rings 

With  jingling  bridle-reins. 

As  she  fled  fast  thro'  sun  and  shade, 
The  happy  winds  upon  her  play'd. 
Blowing  the  ringlet  from  the  braid  : 
She  look'd  so  lovely,  as  she  sway'd 

The  rein  with  dainty  finger-tips, 
A  man  had  given  all  other  bliss, 
And  all  his  worldly  worth  for  this. 
To  waste  his  whole  heart  in  one  kiss 

Upon  her  perfect  lips 


A  FAREWELL. 

Flow  down,  cold  rivulet,  to  the  sea, 
Thy  tribute  wave  deliver  ; 

No  more  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 
Forever  and  forever. 

Flow,  softly  flow,  by  lawn  and  lea, 

A  rivulet  then  a  river  : 
Nowhere  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 

Forever  and  forever. 

But  here  will  sigh  thine  alder  tree 
And  here  thine  aspen  shiver: 

And  here  by  thee  will  hum  the  bce, 
Forever  and  forever. 


In  robe  and  crown  the  king  siepf' dpri\,>i,,     \'    .  ,     i 

To  meet  and  greet  her  c^n  her  way" 

■^  ^    ThH  Beggar  M aIp,  ^ag§  70\[ 


A  thousand  suns  will  stream  on  thee, 
A  thousand  moons  will  quiver  ; 

But  not  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 
Forever  and  forever. 


THE  BEGGAR  MAID. 

Her  arms  across  her  breast  she  laid : 

She  was  more  fair  than  words  can 
say  : 
Barefooted  came  the  beggar  maid 

Before  the  king  Cophetua 
In  robe  and  crown  the  king  stept  down, 

To  meet  and  greet  her  on  her  way  : 
"  It  is  no  wonder,"  said  the  lords, 

'*  She  is  more  beautiful  than  day  " 

As  shines  the  moon  in  clouded  skies. 

She  in  her  poor  attire  was  seen : 
One  praised  her  ankles,  one  her  eyes, 

One   her   dark   hair    and   lovesome 
mien. 
So  sweet  a  face,  such  angel  grace. 

In  all  that  land  had  never  been  : 
Cophetua  sware  a  royal  oath  ; 

*'  This   beggar    maid  shall  be    my 
queen  ! " 


THE  VISION  OF  SIN. 
I. 

I  HAD  a  vision  when   the  night  was 

late  : 
A  youth  came  riding  toward  a  palace- 
gate. 
He  rode  a  horse  with  wings,  that  would 

have  flown, 
But  that  his  heavy  rider  kept  him  down. 
And  from  the  palace  came  a  child  of 

sin, 
And  took  him  by  the  curls,  and  led  him 

in, 
Where  sat  a  company  with  heated  eyes. 
Expecting  when  a  fountain  should  arise  : 
A  sleepy  light  upon  their  brows  and 

lips — 
As  when  the  sun,  a  crescent  of  eclipse, 
Dreams  over  lake  and  lawn,  and  isles 

and  cape-s — 


Suffused  them,  sitting,  lying,  languid 

shapes, 
By  heaps  of  gourds,  and  skins  of  wine, 

and  piles  of  grapes. 


Then  methought  I   heard  a    mellow 

sound, 
Gathering  up  from  all  the  lower  ground; 
Narrowing  in  to  where  they  sat  assem- 
bled 
Low  voluptuous  music  winding  trem- 
bled, 
Wov'n  in  circles:  they  that  heard  it 

sigh'd. 
Panted  hand  in  hand  with  faces  pale, 
Swung  themselves,  and  in  low  tones 

replied ; 
Till  the  fountain  spouted,  showering 

wide 
Sleet  of  diamond-drift  and  pearly  hail ; 
Then  the  music  touch'd  the  gates  and 

died; 
Rose  again  from  where  it  seem'd  to  fail, 
Storm'd  in  orbs  of  song,  a  growing 

gale; 
Till  thronging  in  and  in,  to  where  they 

waited. 
As  'twere  a    hundred-throated  night- 
ingale. 
The  strong  tempestuous  treble  throbb'd 

and  palpitated  ; 
Ran  into  its  giddiest  whirl  of  sound, 
Caught  the  sparkles,  and  in  circles, 
Purple  gauzes,  golden    hazes,  liquid 

mazes. 
Flung  the  torrent  rainbow  round  : 
Then  they  started  from  their  places, 
Moved  with  violence,  changed  in  hue, 
Caught  each  other  with  wild  grimaces, 
Half-invisible  to  the  view. 
Wheeling  with  precipitate  paces 
To  the  melody,  till  they  flew. 
Hair,  and  eyes,  and  hmbs,  and  faces, 
Twisted  hard  in  fierce  emlsraces, 
Like  to  Furies,  like  to  Graces, 
Dash'd  together  in  blinding  dew  : 
Till,  kill'd  with  some  luxurious  agony, 
The  nerve-dissolving  melody 
Flutter'd  headlong  from  the  sky. 


ii6 


THE  VISION  OF  SIN. 


And  then  I  look'd  up  toward  a  moun- 
tain-tract, 
1  hat  girt  the  region  with  high  cliff  and 

lawn  : 
I  saw  that  every  morning,  far  withdrawn 
Beyond  the  darkness  and  the  cataract, 
God  made  himself  an  awful  rose   of 

dawn 
Unheeded  :  and  detaching,  fold  by  fold, 
From    those   still  heights,  and,  slowly 

drawing  near, 
A  vapor  heavy,  hueless,  formless,  cold, 
Came  floating  on   for  many  a  month 

and  year, 
Unheeded :   and    I    thought   I   would 

have  spoken. 
And  warned  that  madman  ere  it  grew 

too  late  : 
But,  as  in  dreams,  I  could  not.     Mine 

was  broken, 
When  that    cold  vapor    touch'd  the 

palace  gate, 
And   link'd   again.     I  saw  within   my 

head 
A  gray  and  gap-tooth 'd  man  as  lean  as 

death, 
Who   slowly   rode   across   a  wither'd 

heath. 
And  lighted  at  a  ruin'd  inn,  and  said  : 


"  Wrinkled  hostler,  grim  and  thin  ! 

Here  is  custom  come  your  way , 
Take  my  brute,  and  lead  him  in, 

Stuff  his  ribs  with  mould)  hay. 

"  Bitter  barmaid,  waning  fast  ! 

See  that  sheets  are  on  my  bed ; 
What !  the  flower  of  life  is  past : 

It  is  long  before  you  wed. 

""  Slip-shod  waiter,  lank  and  sour. 
At  the  Dragon  on  the  heath ! 

Let  us  have  a  quiet  hour. 

Let  us  hob-and-nob  with  Death. 

"  I  am  old,  but  let  me  drink  ; 

Bring  me  spices,  bring  me  wine  ; 
I  remember,  when  I  think, 

That  my  youth  was  half  divine. 


*'  Wine  is  good  for  shrivell'd  lips, 
When  a  blanket  wraps  the  day, 

When  the  rotten  woodland  drips, 
And  the  leaf  is  stamp'd  in  clay. 

"  Sit  thee  down,  and  have  no  shame, 
Cheek  by  jowl,  and  knee  by  knee : 

What  care  I  for  any  name  ? 
What  for  order  or  degree  ? 

"  Let  me  screw  thee  up  a  peg  : 

T^et  me  loose  thy  tongue  with  wine ; 

Callest  thou  that  thing  a  leg  ,'' 

Which  is  thinnest?  thine  or  mine  ? 

"Thou  shalt  not  be  saved  by  works: 
Thou  hast  been  a  sinner  too : 

Ruin'd  trunks  on  wither'd  forks. 
Empty  scarecrows,  I  and  you  ! 

"  Fill  the  cup,  and  fill  the  can : 
Have  a  rouse  before  the  morn : 

Every  moment  dies  a  man. 
Every  moment  one  is  born. 

"  We  are  men  of  ruin'd  blood  ; 

Therefore  comes  it  we  are  wise. 
Fish  are  we  that  love  the  mud. 

Rising  to  no  fancy-flies. 

"  Name  and  fame  !  to  fly  sublime 
Through  the  courts,  the  camps,  the 
schools 

Is  to  be  the  ball  of  Time, 

Bandied  in  the  hands  of  fools. 

"  P'riendship ! — to  be  two  in  one — 

Let  the  canting  liar  pack  ! 
Well  I  know,  when  I  am  gone. 

How  she  mouths  behind  my  back 

"  Virtue  ! — to  be  good  and  just — 
Every  heart,  when  sifted  well. 

Is  a  clot  of  warmer  dust, 

Mix'd  with  cunning  sparks  of  hell, 

"  O  !  we  two  as  well  can  look 
Whited  thought  and  cleanly  life 

As  the  priest,  above  his  book 
Leering  at  his  neighbor's  wife. 

"  Fill  the  cup,  and  fill  the  can : 
Have  a  rouse  before  the  morn; 

Every  moment  dies  a  man. 
Every  moment  one  is  born. 


THE  VIS  TON  OF  SIN^ 


117 


"Drink,  and  let  the  parties  rave  ; 

They  are  fill'd  with  idle  spleen ; 
Rising,  falling,  like  a  wave. 

For  they  know  not  what  thy  mean. 

•'  He  that  roars  for  liberty 
Faster  binds  a  tyrant's  power 

And  the  tyrant's  cruel  glee 
Forces  on  the  freer  hour. 

*Fill  the  can,  and  fi.ll  the  cup ; 

All  the  windy  ways  of  men 
Are  but  dust  that  rises  up, 
And  is  lightly  laid  again. 

"  Greet  her  with  applausive  breath, 
Freedom,  gayly  doth  she  tread  • 

In  her  right  a  civic  wreath. 
In  her  left  a  human  head. 

"  No,  I  love  not  what  is  new  ; 

She  is  of  an  ancient  house  : 
And  I  think  we  know  the  hue 

Of  that  cap  upon  her  brows. 

"  Let  her  go !  her  thirst  she  slakes 
Where  the  bloody^conduit  runs  : 

Then  her  sweetest  meal  she  makes 
On  the  first-born  of  her  sons. 

"Drink  to  lofty  hopes  that  cool — 
Visions  of  a  perfect  State : 

Drink  we,  last,  the  public  fool, 
Frantic  love  and  frantic  hate. 

"  Chant  me  now  some  wicked  stave, 
Till  thy  drooping  courage  rise, 

And  the  glow-worm  of  the  grave 
Glimmer  in  thy  rheumy  eyes. 

*'  Fear  not  thou  to  loose  thy  tongue  ; 

Set  thy  hoary  fancies  free  ; 
What  is  loathsome  to  the  young 

Savors  well  to  thee  and  me. 

**Change,  reverting  to  the  years. 
When  thy  nerves  could  understand 

What  there  is  in  loving  tears. 
And  the  warmth  of  hand  in  hand. 

"  Tell  me  tales  of  thy  first  love — 
April  hopes,  the  fools  of  chance  : 

Till  the  graves  begin  to  move. 
And  the  dead  begin  to  dance. 


"  Fill  the  can,  and  fill  the  cup  : 

All  the  windy  ways  of  men 
Are  but  dust  that  rises  up. 

And  is  lightly  laid  again. 

"  Trooping  from  their  mouldy  dens 
The  chap-fallen  circle  spreads  : 

Welcome,  fellow-citizens, 

Hollow  hearts  and  empty  heads! 

"You  are  bones,  and  what  of  that? 

Every  face,  however  full, 
Padded'  round  with  flesh  and  fat, 

Is  but  modell'd  on  a  skull. 

"  Death  is  king,  and  Vivat  Rex  I 
Tread  a  measure  on  the  stones, 

Madam — if  I  know  your  sex, 
From  the  fashion  of  your  bones. 

'*  No,  I  cannot  praise  the  fire 
In  your  eye — nor  yet  your  lip  : 

All  the  more  do  I  admire 
Joints  of  cunning  workmanship. 

"  Lo!  God's  likeness — the  ground-plan 
Neither  modell'd.  glazed,  or  framed: 

Buss  me,  thou  rough  sketch  of  man. 
Far  too  naked  to  be  shamed ! 

"  Drink  to  Fortune,  drink  to  Chance, 
While  wo  keep  a  little  breath  ! 

Drink  to  heavy  Ignorance  ! 

Hob-and  nob  with  brother  Death  I 

'Thou  art  mazed,  the  night  is  long. 
And  the  longer  night  is  near ; 

What !  I  am  not  all  as  wrong 
As  a  bitter  jest  is  dear. 

"Youthful  hopes,  by  scores,  to  all, 
When  the  locks  are  crisp  and  curl'd ; 

Unto  me  my  maudlin  gall 

And  my  mockeries  of  the  world. 

**  Fill  the  cup,  and  fill  the  can  ! 

Mingle  madness,  mingle  scorn  I 
Dregs  of  life,  and  lees  of  man  : 

Yet  we  will  not  die  forlorn." 

5- 
The  voice  grew  faint :    there  came  a 

further  change  : 
Once  more  uprose  the  mystic  mountain 

range: 


Ii8 


THE  POET'S  SONG. 


Below  were   men   and   horses  pierced 

with  worms, 
And    slowly    quickening     into    lower 

forms  ; 
.By  shards  and  scurf  of  salt,  and  scum 

of  dross, 
Old  plash  of  rains,  and  refuse  patch'd 

with  moss. 
Then  some  one  spake  :  "  Behold !  it 

was  a  crime 
Of  sense  avenged  by  sense  that  wore 

with  time." 
Another  said :   "  The  crime  of  sense 

became 
The    crime   of    malice,   and   is   equal 

blame." 
And  one :  "  He  had  not  wholly  quench'd 

his  power  ;  [sour." 

A  little  grain  of  conscience  made  him 
At  last  I  heard  a  voice  upon  the  slope 
Cry  to   the    summit,   '*  Is    there   any 

hope .'' " 
To  which  an  answer  peal'd  from  that 

high  land, 
But  in  a  tongue  no  man  could  under- 
stand ; 
And  on  the  glimmering  limit  far  with- 
drawn 
God  made  Himself  an  awful  rose  of 

dawn. 


Come  not,  when  I  am  dead. 

To  drop  thy  foolish  tears  upon  my 
grave, 
To  trample  round  my  fallen  head, 
And   vex    the    unhappy   dust    thou 
wouldst  not  save. 
There  let  the  wind  sweep  and  the  plover 
cry ; 
But  thou,  go  by. 

Child,  if  it  were  thine   error  or  thy 
crime 
I  care  no  longer,  being  all  unblest : 
Wed  whom  thou  wilt,  but  I  am  sick  of 
Time, 
And  I  desire  to  rest. 
Pass  on,  weak  heart,   and  leave  me 
where  I  lie : 
Go  by,  go  by. 


THE  EAGLE, 

FRAGMENT. 

He  clasps  the  crag  with  hooked  hands ; 
Close  to  the  sun  in  lonely  lands, 
Ring'd  with  the  azure  world,  he  stands. 
The  wrinkled  sea  beneath  him  crawls  ; 
He  watches  from  his  mountain  walls, 
And  like  a  thunderbolt  he  falls. 


Move  eastward,  happy  earth,  and  leave 
Yon  orange  sunset  waning  slow: 

From  fringes  of  the  faded  eve, 
O,  happy  planet,  eastward  go  : 

Till  over  thy  dark  shoulder  glow 
Thy  silver  sister-world,  and  rise 
To  glass  herself  in  dewy  eyes 

That  watch  me  from  the  glen  below. 

Ah,  bear  me  with  thee,  lightly  borne^ 
Dip  forward  under  starry  light, 

And  move  me  to  my  marriage-morn, 
And  round  again  to  happy  night. 


Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea* 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

O  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play! 

O  well  for  the  sailor  lad. 
That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay ! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 
To  their  haven  under  the  hill ; 

But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanish'd  hand. 
And  the  sound  of  a  voice  tfiatis-still! 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags  O  Sea  ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 


THE  POET'S  SONG. 

The  rain  had  fallen,  the  Poet  arose. 
He  pass'd  by  the  town  and  out  of  the 
street, 


TFTE  PRINCESS. 


119 


A  light  wind  blew  from  the  gates  of 
the  sun, 
And  waves  of  shadow  went  over  the- 
wheat, 
And   he   sat  him  down   in    a    lonely 
place. 
And    chanted  a  melody  loud    and 
sweet, 
That  made  the  wild-swan  pause  in  her 
cloud. 
And  the  lark  drop  down  at  his  feet. 


The  swallow  stopt  as  he  hunted  the  bee, 

The  snake  slipt  under  a  spray, 
The  wild  hawk  stood  with  the  down  on 
his  beak, 
And  stared,  with  his  foot  on  the  prey. 
And  the  nightingale  thought,  "  I  have 
sung  many  songs, 
But  never  a  one  so  gay, 
For  he  sings  of  what  the  world  will 
be 
When  the  years  have  died  away." 


THE    PRINCESS 

A    MEDLEY. 


TO 

HENRY    LUSHINGTON 

THIS  VOLUME  IS   INSCRIBED  BY  HIS    FRIEND 

A.  TENNYSON. 


PROLOGUE. 

Sir  Walter  Vivian  all  a  summer's 

day 
Gave  his  broad  lawns  until  the  set  of 

sun 
Up  to  the  people  :  thither  flock'd  at 

noon 
His  tenants,  wife  and  <:hild,  and  thither 

half 
The   neighboring  borough  with   their 

Institute 
Of  which  he  was  the  patron.     I  was 

there  [son 

From   college,   visiting   the   son, — the 
A  Walter  too, — with  others  of  our  set, 
Five  others  :  we  were  seven  at  Vivian- 
place. 

And  me  that  morning  Walter  show'd 
the  house, 
Greek,  set  with  busts  :  from  vases  in 
the  hall 


Flowers   of  all  heavens,  and  lovelier 

than  their  names. 
Grew  side  by  side ;  and  on  the  pave- 
ment lay 
Carved  stones  of  the  Abbey-ruin  in  the 

park. 
Huge  Ammonites,  and  the  first  bones 

of  Time ; 
And  on  the  tables  every  clime  and  age 
Jumbled  together ;  celts  and  calumets, 
Claymore  and  snow-shoe,  toys  in  lava, 

fans 
Of  sandal,  amber,  ancient  rosaries, 
Laborious      orient    ivory     sphere     in 

sphere,  [clubs 

The  cursed  Malayan  crease,  and  battle- 
From  the  isles  of  palm  ;  and  higher  on 

the  walls. 
Betwixt  the  monstrous  horns  of  elk  and 

deer. 
His  own  forefathers'  arms  and  arraoz 

hung. 


120 


THE  PRINCESS. 


And  "this,"  he  said.  "  was   Hugh's 

at  Agincourt  ; 
ilnd  that  was  old  Sir   Ralph's  at  As- 

calon  : 
A  good  knight  he  !  we  keep  a  chronicle 
With    all     about     him/'  —  which    he 

brought,  and  I 
Dived  in  a  hoard  of  tales  that  dealt 

with  knights 
JIalf-legend,  half-historic,   counts  and 

kings 
Who  laid  about  them  at  their  wills  and 

died; 
^nd  mixt  with  these,  a  lady,  one  that 

arm'd 
Her  own  fair  head,  and  sallying  thro' 

the  gate. 
Had  beat  her  foes  with  slaughter  from 

her  walls. 

"  O '  miracle   of  wc  men,"    said   the 

book, 
*'  O  noble   heart  who,  being   strait-be- 
sieged 
£y  this  wild  king  to  force  her  to  his 

wish, 
Nor  bent,  nor  broke,  nor  shunn'd   a 

soldier's  death, 
But  now  when  all  was  lost  or  seem'd 

as  lost — 
Her  stature  more  than  mortal  in  the 

burst 
Of  sunrise,   her   arm   lifted,   eyes   on 

fire — 
Brake  with  a  blast  of  trumpets  from 

the  gate. 
And,  falling  on  them  like  a  thunder- 
bolt. 
She  trampled  some  beneath  her  horses' 

heels, 
And  some  were  whelm'd  with  missiles 

of  the  wall. 
And  some  were  push'd  with    lances 

from  the  rock, 
And    part   were  drown'd   within    the 

whirling  brook : 
O  miracle  of  noble  womanhood  I  " 

So  sang  the  gallant  glorious  chron- 
icle ; 
And,  I  all  rapt  in  this,  "  Come  out,"  he 
said. 


"  To  the  Abbey ;  there  is  Aunt  Eliz' 

abeth 
And  sister  Lilia  with  the  rest."     We 

went 
(I  kept   the  book  and  had  my  finger 

in  it) 
Down  thro'  the  park :  strange  was  the 

sight  to  me  ; 
For  all  the  sloping  pasture  murmur'd, 

sown 
With  happy  faces   and  with  holiday. 
There   moved   the   multitude,  a   thou- 
sand heads  ; 
The  patient  leaders  of  their  Institute 
Taught  them  with  facts.     One  rear'd  a 

font  of  stone 
And  drew  from  butts  of  water  on  the 

slope, 
The  fountain  of  the  moment,  playing 

now 
A  twisted   snake,  and   now   a   rain  of 

pearls, 
Or  steep-up  spout  whereon  the  gilded 

ball 
Danced  like  a  wisp  :    and  somewhat 

lower  down 
A  man  with  knobs  and  wires  and  vials 

fired 
A  cannon :  Echo  answer'd  in  her  sleep 
From   hollow   fields  :  and   here    were 

telescopes 
For  azure  views ;  and  there  a  group  of 

girls  [shock 

In   circle    waited,   whom   the   electric 
Dislink'd  with  shrieks   and  laughter: 

round  the  lake 
A  little   clock-work   steamer  paddling 

plied 
And   shook  the  lilies;   perch'd  about 

the  knolls 
A  dozen  angry  models  jetted  steam  ; 
A  petty  railway  ran:  a  fire-balloon 
Rose   gem-like  up   before   the    dusky 

groves 
And  dropt  a  fairy  parachute  and  past : 
And   there   thro'  twenty. posts  of  tele- 
graph 
They  flashed  a  saucy  message  to  and 

fro 
Between  the  mimic  stations  ;  so  that 

sport 


THE  PRINCESS. 


121 


Went   hand   in   hand    with    Science; 

otherwhere . 
Pure  sport :  a  herd  of  boys  with  clamor 

bowl'd 
And  stump'd  the  wicket ;  babies  roll'd 

about 
Like  tumbled  fruit  in  grass  ;  and  men 

and  maids 
Arranged  a  country  dance,   and   flew 

thro'  light 
And     shadow,    while     the    twangling 

violin  n 

Struck    up   with   Soldier-laddie,    and 

overhead 
The   broad  ambrosial   aisles   of  lofty 

lime 
Made  noise  with  bees  and  breeze  from 

end  to  end. 

Strange  was  the  sight  and  smacking 

of  the  time  ; 
And  long  we  gazed,  but  satiated  at 

length 
Came  to  the  ruins.     High-arch'd  and 

ivy-claspt, 
Of  finest  Gothic  lighter  than  a  fire, 
Thro'  one  wide  chasm  of  time  and  frost 

they  gave 
The  park,  the  crowd,  the  house  ;  but 

all  within 
The   sward  was  trim   as   any  garden 

lawn  : 
And  here  we  lit  on  Aunt  Elizabeth, 
And   Lilia    with    the     rest,   and   lady 

friends 
From  neighbor  seats :  and  there  was 

Ralph  liimself, 
A  broken   statue   propt    against    the 

wall, 
As  gay  as  any      Lilia  wild  with  sport, 
Half  child,  half  woman  as  she  was,  had 

wound 
A  scarf  of  orange    round  the   stony 

helm, 
And  robed  the  shoulders  in  a  rosy  silk. 
That  made  the  old  warrior  from  his 

ivied  nook 
Glow  like  a  sunbeam :  near  his  tomb  a 

feast 
Shone,    silver-set ;    about    it  lay  the 

guests, 


And  there  we  joined  them:  then  the 

maiden  Aunt 
Took  this  fair  day  for  text,  and  from  it 

preach'd 
An  universal  culture  for  the  crowd. 
And   all    things   great ;     but  we,   un- 

worthier,  told 
Of  College  :  he  had  climb'd  across  the 

spikes. 
And  he  had  squeezed  himself  betwixt 

the  bars, 
And   he   had   breathed   the   Proctor's 

dogs  :  and  one 
Discuss'd  his  tutor,  rough  to  common 

men. 
But  honeying  at  the  whisper  of  a  lord; 
And  one    the    Master,  as   a   rogue  in 

grain 
Veneer'd  with  sanctimonious  theory. 

But  while  they  talk'd,  above   their 

heads  I  saw 
The  feudal  warrior  lady-clad;    which 

brought 
My  book  to  mind  :  and  opening  this  I 

read 
Of  old  Sir  Ralph  a  page  or  two  that 

rang 
With  tilt  and  tourney ;  then  the  tale  of 

her 
That   drove   her   foes   with  slaughter 

from  her  walls, 
And  much    I   praised   her  nobleness, 

and  "  Where," 
Ask'd    Walter,   patting    Lilia's    head 

(she  lay 
Beside  him)  "  lives  there  such  a  wo- 
man now  ?  '* 

Quick  answer'd   Lilia,  "  There   are 

thousands  now 
Such   women,   but    convention    beats 

them  down: 
It  is  but  bringing  up ;  no  more  than 

that: 
You  men  have  done  it :  how  I  hate 

you  all ! 
Ah  !  were  I  something  great !  I  wish  I 

were 
Some  mighty  poetess,  T  would  shame 

you  then. 


122 


THE  PRINCESS. 


That  love  to  keep  us  children !     O  I 

wish 
That  I  were  some  great   Princess,  I 

would  build 
Far  off   from  men  a  college   like  a 

man's, 
And  I  would  teach  them  all  that  men 

are  taught : 
We  are  twice  as  quick ! "     And  here 

she  shook  aside 
The  hand  that  play'd  the  patron  with 

her  curls. 

And  one  said  smiling,  "  Pretty  were 

the  sight 
If  our  old  halls  could  change  their  sex, 

and  flaunt 
With  prudes  for  proctors,  dowagers  for 

deans, 
And   sweet      girl-graduates    in    their 

golden  hair. 
I  think  they  should  not  wear  our  rusty 

gowns. 
But  move  as  rich  as  Emperor-moths  or 

Ralph 
Who  shines  so  in  the  corner;  yet  I 

fear. 
If  there  were  many  Lilias  in  the  brood. 
However  deep  you  might  embower  the 

nest 
Some  boy  would  spy  it." 

At  this  upon  the  sward 
She  tapt  her  tiny  silken-sandal'd  foot : 
"That's  your  light  way:   but  I  would 

make  it  death 
For  any  male  thing  but  to  peep  at  us." 

Petulant  she  spoke,  and  at  herself 

she  laugh' d ; 
A  rose-bud  set  with  little  wilful  thorns. 
And  sweet  as  English  air  could  make 

her,  she  : 
But   Walter  hail'd  a  score  of  names 

upon  her, 
And  "  petty  Ogress,"  and  "  ungrateful 

Puss," 
And  swore  he  long'd  at  College,  only 

long'd. 
All  else  was  well,  for  she-society. 
They  boated  and  they  cricketed  ;   they 

talk'd 
^t  wine,  in  clubs,  of  art,  of  politics ; 


They  lost  their  weeks  ;   they  v«vf  ^  ^ 

souls  of  deans  ; 
They  rode ;   they  betted  ;  mad*^  ^  Jiur  • 

dred  friends, 
And  caught  the  blossom  of  the  flyii^ 

terms, 
But  miss'd  the  mignonette  of  Vivian- 
place, 
The  little  hearth-flower  Lilia.  Thus  he 

spoke. 
Part  banter,  part  affection. 

*'  True,"  she  said, 
*'  We  doubt    not    that.     O  yes,  you 

miss'd  us  much. 
I'll   stake  my  ruby  ring  upon  it  you 

did." 

She  held  it  out;  and  as  a  parrot 

turns 
Up  thro'  gilt  wires  a  crafty  loving  eye, 
And  takes  a  lady's  finger  with  all  care. 
And  bites  it  for  true  heart  and  not  for 

harm. 
So   he     with    Lilia's.      Daintily     she 

shriek'd 
And    wrung    it.     "Doubt  my    word 

again  !  "  he  said. 
"  Come,  listen  !  here  is  proof  that  you 

were  miss'd : 
We  seven  stay'd  at  Christmas  up  to 

read, 
And   there  we  took  one  tutor  as  to 

read  ; 
The  hard-grain'd  Muses  of  the  cube  and 

square 
Were  out  of  season :    never  man,  I 

think, 
So  moulder'd  in  a  sinecure  as  he  : 
For  while   our   cloisters   echo'd  frosty 

feet, 
And  our  long  walks  were  stript  as  bare 

as  brooms,  [all 

We  did  but  talk  you  over,  pledge  you 
In  wassail  :  often,  like  as  many  girls — 
Sick  for  the   hollies  and  the  yews  of 

home — 
As  many  little  trifling  Lilias — play'd 
Charades  and  riddles  as  at    Christmas 

here. 
And  whafs  my  thought  and  when  and 

whera  and  how^ 


THE  PRINCESS. 


123 


And  often  told  a  tale  from  mouth  to 

mouth 
As  here  at  Christmas." 

She  remember'd  that  : 
A   pleasant   game,   she   thought :  she 

liked  it  more 
Than  magic    music,  forfeits,   all   the 

rest. 
But  these — what  kind  of  tales  did  men 

tell  men, 
She  wonder'd,  by  themselves  ? 

A  half-disdain 
Perch'd  on  the  pouted  blossom  of  her 

lips  : 
And   Walter  nodded    at    me ;    "  He 

began, 
The  rest  would  follow,  each  in  turn  ; 

and  so 
We  forged  a  sevenfold  story.     Kind  ? 

what  kind  .-* 
Chimeras,  crotchets,    Christmas  sole- 
cisms, 
Seven-headed   monsters  only  made  to 

kill 
Time  by  the  fire  in  winter." 

"  Kill  him  now, 
The  tyrant !  kill  him  in   the   summer 

too," 
Said    Lilia;    "Why  not    now,"    the 

maiden  Aunt. 
"  Why  not  a  summer's  as  a  winter's 

tale .? 
A  tale  for  summer  as  befits  the  time, 
And  something  it  should  be  to  suit  the 

place, 
Heroic,  for  a  hero  lies  beneath, 
Grave,  solemn !  " 

Walter  warp'd  his  mouth  at  this 
To  something  so   mock-solemn,  that  I 

laugh'd  [mirth 

And  Lilia  woke    with   sudden-shrilling 
And  echo  like  a  ghostly  woodpecker. 
Hid  in  the  ruins;  till  the  maiden  Aunt 
(A  little    sense  of   wrong    had  touch'd 

her  face 
With  color)  turn'd  to  me  with  "  As 

you  will  ; 
Heroic  if  you  will,  or  what  you  will, 
Or  be  yourself  your  hero  if  you  will." 
"  Take    Lilia,   then,  for    heroine," 

clamor'd  he, 


"  And  make  her  some  great   Princess, 

six  feet  high, 
Grand,  epic,  homicidal  ;  and  be  you 
The  Prince  to  win  her  !  " 

"  Then  follow  me,  the  Prince," 
I  answer'd,  "  each  be  hero  in  his  turn  I 
Seven  and  yet  one,  like  shadows  in  a 

dream. — 
Heroic  seems   our    Princess    as    re- 
quired — 
But  something  made  to  suit  with  Time 

and  place, 
A  Gothic  ruin  and  a  Grecian  house, 
A  talk  of  college  and  of  ladies'  rights, 
A  feudal  knight  in  silken  masquerade, 
And,  yonder,  shrieks  and  strange   ex- 
periments 
For  which  the  good  Sir   Ralph  had 

burnt  them  all — 
This  were  a  medley  !  we   should  have 

him  back 
Who  told  the  'Winter's  tale'  to  do  it 

for  us. 
No    matter :    we    will    say  whatever 

comes. 
And  Jet  the  ladies  sing  us,  if  they  will, 
From  time  to   time,  some  ballad  or  a 

song 
To  give  us  breathing-space." 

So  I  began, 
And  the  rest  follow'd :  and  the  women 

sang 
Between  the   rougher   voices  of    the 

men, 
Like  linnets  in  the  pauses  of  the  wind : 
And  here  I  give  the  story   and    the 

songs. 

I. 

A  Prince  I  was,  blue-eyed,  and  fair  in 

face, 
Of  temper  amorous,  as  the  first  of  May, 
With   lengths  of  yellow  ringlet,  like  a 

girl, 
For  on  my  cradle  shone  the  Northern 

star. 

There  lived  an  ancient  legend  in  our 
house. 
Some  sorcerer,  whom  a  far-off  grand' 
sire  burnt 


124 


THE  PRINCESS. 


Because  he  cast  no  shadow,  had  fore- 
told, 
Dying,    that    none   of    all   our   blood 

should  know 
The  shadow  from  the  substance,  and 

that  one 
Should  come  to  fight  with  shadows  and 

to  fall. 
For   so,  my  mother  said,  the  story  ran. 
And,  truly,  waking  dreams  were,  more 

or  less, 
An  old  and  strange  affection  of  the 

house. 
Myself  too  had  weird  seizures.  Heaven 

knows  what  : 
On  a  sudden  in  the  midst  of  men  and 

day, 
And  while  I  walk'd  and  talk'd  as  here- 

'     tofore, 
I  seem'd  to  move  among  a  world  of 

ghosts, 
And  feel  myself  the  shadow  of  a  dream. 
Our  great  court-Galen  poised  his  gilt- 
head  cane. 
And   paw'd  his  beard,   and    mutier'd 

"  catalepsy." 
My  mother  pitying   made  a  thousand 

prayers ; 
My  mother  was  as  mild  as  any  saint, 
Half-canonized  by  all   that  look'd  on 

her, 
So  gracious  was  her  tact  and  tender- 
ness ; 
But  my  good  father  thought  a  king  a 

king; 
He  cared  not  for  the  affection  of  the 

house ; 
He  held   his  sceptre  like  a  pedant's 

wand 
To  lash  offence,  and  with  long  arms 

and  hands 
Reach'd  out,  and  pick'd  offenders  from 

the  mass 
For  judgment 

Now  it  chanced  that  I  had  been, 
While  life  was   yet  in  bud  and  blade, 

betroth'd 
To  one,  a   neighboring  Princess  :  she 

to  me 
Was    proxy- wedded  with  a    bootless 

calf 


At  eight  years  (>ld  ;  and  still  from  time 
to  time 

Came  murmurs  of  her  beauty  from  the 
South, 

And  of  her  brethren,  youths  of  puis- 
sance ; 

And  still  I  wove  her  picture  by  my 
heart. 

And  one  dark  iress;  and  all  around 
them  both 

Sweet  thoughts  ,vould  swarm  as  bees 
about  their  queen. 

But  when  the  ilays  drew  nigh  that  I 

should  wed. 
My  father  sent  ambassadors  with   furs 
And  jewels,  gifts,  to  fetch   her  :  these 

brought  back 
A  present,  a  great  labor  of  the  loom  ; 
And   therewithal   an  answer  vague  as 

wind  : 
Besides,  they  saw  the   king ,   he  took 

the  gifts  ; 
He  said  there  was  a  compact ;  that  was 

true  : 
But  then  she  had  a  will ;  was  he  to 

blame  1 
And  maiden  fancies ;    loved   to    live 

alone 
Among  her  women  ^  certain,    would 

not  wed. 

That  morning  in  the  presence  room 

1  stood 
With  Cyril  and  with   Florian,  my  two 

friends : 
The  first,  a  gentleman  of  broken  means 
(His  father's   fault ^  but  given  to  starts 

and  bursts 
Of  revel  ;   and  the  last,  my  other  heart, 
And  almost  my  half-self,  for  still  we 

moved 
Together,  twinn'd  as  horse's  ear  and 

eye. 

Now,   while   they  spake,  I  saw   my 

father's  face 
Grow  long   and  troi  bled  like  a   rising 

moon, 
Inflamed  with  wrath:  he  started  on  his 

feet, 
Tore  the  king's  letter,  snow'd  it  down, 

and  rent 


THE  PRINCESS. 


^25 


The  wonder  of   the  loom    thro'    warp 

and  woof 
From  skirt  to  skirt ;  and  at  the  last  he 

sware 
That  he  would  send  a  hundred  thou- 
sand men, 
And  bring  her  in  a  whirlwind ;  then  he 

chew'd 
The    thrice-turn'd   cud    of    wrath,  and 

cook'd  his  spleen, 
Communing  with   his  captains  of   the 

war. 
At  last  I  spoke.     "  My  father,  let  me 

go- 
It  cannot  be  but  some  gross  error  lies 
In  this  report,  this  answer  of  a  king, 
Whom  all  men  rate  as  kind  and  hos' 

pitable  : 
Or,  maybe,  I  myself,   iny  bride  once 

seen, 
Whate'er  my  grief  to  find  her  less  than 

fame, 
May    rue    the    bargain   made."     And 

Florian  said  : 
"  I  have  a  sister  at  the  foreign  court. 
Who  moves  about  the   Princess ;  she^ 

you  know. 
Who  wedded   with   a  nobleman  from 

thence  : 
He,  dying  lately,  left  her,  as  I  hear. 
The  lady  of  three  castles,  in  that  land ; 
Thro'  her  this  matter  might  be  sifted 
»        clean." 
And  Cyril   whisper'd  :  "  Take  me  with 

you  too." 
Then  laughing  *'  what,   if  these  weird 

seizures  come 
Upon  you  in  those  lands,  and  no  one 

near 
To  point  you  out  the  shadow  from  the 

truth  ! 
Take  me  ;  I'll  serve  you   better   in   a 

strait; 
I   grate  on  rusty   hinges   here : "    but 

"No!" 
Roar'd  the  rough  king,  "  you  shall  not ; 

we  ourself 
Will  crush   her  pretty  maiden   fancies 

dead 
In  iron   gauntlets:  break   the    counci' 

up." 


But  when  the  council  broke,  I  rose 

and  past 
Thro'  the  wild  woods  that  hung  about 

the  town ; 
Found  a   still  place,  and  pluck'd  her 

likeness  out ; 
Laid  it  on  flowers,  and  watch'd  it  lying 

bathed 
In  the  green  gleam  of  dewy-tassell'd 

trees : 
What  were  those  fancies  ?  wherefore 

break  her  troth .'' 
Proud  look'd  the   lips  ;   but  while   I 

meditated 
A  wind   arose   and   rush'd    upon   the 

South, 
And  shook  the  songs,  the  whispers,  and 

the  shrieks 
Of  the  wild  woods  together;   and  a 

Voice 
Went  with  it,  "  Follow,  follow,  thou 

shalt  win." 

Then,  ere  the  silver  sickle  of  that 

month  [court 

Became  her  golden  shield,  I  stole  from 
With  Cyril   and  with  Horian,  unper- 

ceived. 
Cat-footed  thro'  the  town  and  half  in 

dread 
To  hear  my  father's    clamor  at  our 

backs 
With    Ho !    from    some    bay-window 

shake  the  night ;  [walls, 

But  all  was  quiet :   from  the  bastion'd 
Like  threaded  spiders,  one  by  i?r.e,  we 

dropt, 
And  flying  rcach'd  the  frontier;  then 

wc  crost 
To  a  livelier  land ;  and  so  by  tilth  and 

grange. 
And  vines,  and  blowing  bosks  of  wil- 
derness, 
We  gain'd  the  mother-city  thick  with 

towers. 
And  in  the  imperial  palace  found  th« 

king. 

His  name  was  Gama;  crack'd  and 
small  his  voice, 
But  bland  the  smile  that  like  a  wrink* 
ling  wind 


[26 


THE  PRINCESS. 


On   glassy  water  drove   his   cheek  in 

lines; 
A  little  dry  old  man,  without  a  star, 
Not  like  a  king  :  three  days  he  feasted 

us, 
And  on  the  fourth  I  spake  of  why  we 

came, 
And    my    betroth'd.     "You     do     us, 

Prince,"  he  said. 
Airing  a  snowy  hand  and  signet  gem, 
"All  honor.     We  remember  love  our- 
selves 
In  our  sweet  youth :  there  did  a  com- 
pact pass  [mony — 
Long  summers  back,  a  kind   of  cere- 
I  think  the  year  in  which  our  olives 

fail'd. 
1  would  you  had  her,  Prince,  with  all 

my  heart, 
With   my  full  heart:  but  there  were 

widows  here. 
Two     widows,     lady     Pysche,     lady 

Blanche ; 
They  fed  her  theories,  in  and  out  of 

place 
Maintaining  that  with  equal  husbandry 
The  woman  were  an  equal  to  the  man. 
They  harp'd   on   this;   with  this  our 

banquets  rang ; 
Our  dances  broke  and  buzz'd  in  knots 

of  talk ; 
Nothing  but  this  ;  my  very  ears  were 

hot 
To    hear  them  :    knowledge,   so    my 

daughter  held. 
Was  all  in  all ;  they  had  but  been,  she 

thought, 
As  children  ;  they  must  lose  the  child, 

assume 
The  woman  :  then,  Sir,  awful  odes  she 

wrote, 
Too  awful,  sure,  for  what  tkey  treated 

of, 
But  all  she  is  and  does  is  awful ;  odes 
About  this  losing  of  the  child;   and 

rhymes 
And  dismal  lyrics,  prophesying  change 
Beyond  all  reason :    these  the  women 

sang; 
And  they  that  know  such  things — I 

sought  but  peace ; 


No  critic  I — would  call  them  master- 
pieces ; 
They  master'd  me.    At  last  she  begg'd 

a  boon 
A  certain  summer-palace  which  I  have 
Hard  by  your  father's  frontier :   I  said 

no. 
Yet  being  an  easy  man,  gave  it ;  and 

there, 
All  wild  to  found  an  University 
For  maidens,  on  the  spur  she  fled ; 

and  more 
We  know  not, — only  this :  they  see  no 

men, 
Not   ev'n  her   brother  Arac,  nor  the 

twins 
Her  brethren,  tho'  they  love  her,  look 

upon  her 
As  on  a  kind  of  paragon ;  and  I 
(Pardon    me    saying    it)   were    much 

loathe  to  breed 
Dispute  betwixt  myself  and  mine  :  but 

since 
(And  I  confess  with  right)  you  think 

me  bound 
In  some  sort,  I  can  give  you  letters  to 

her ; 
And  yet,  to  speak  the  truth,  I  rate  your 

chance 
Almost  at  naked  nothing." 

Thus  the  king ; 
And  I,  tho'  nettled  that  he  seem'd  to 

slur 
With  garrulous  ease  and  oily  courte- 
sies [frets 
Our  formal  compact,  yet,  not  less  (all 
But   chafing   me   on   fire   to    find   my 

bride) 
Went  forth  again  with  both  my  friends. 

We  rode 
Many  a  long  league  back  to  the  north. 

At  last 
From  hills,  that  look'd  across  a  land 

of  hope, 
We  dropt  with  evening  on  a  rustic 

town 
Set    in  a  gleaming   river's    crescent- 
curve, 
Close  at  the  boundary  of  the  liberties; 
There   enter'd   an  old    kostel,   call'd 

mine  host 


THE  PRINCESS. 


127 


To  council,  plied  him  with  his  richest 

wines, 
And  show'd  the  late-writ  letters  of  the 

king. 

He,  with  a  long  lowsibilation,  stared 
A.S  blank  as  death  in  marble  ;  then  ex- 

claim'd 
A-verring  it  was  clear  against  all  rules 
For  any  man  to  go  :  tout  as  his  brain 
Began   to   mellow,   "If   the  king,"  he 

said, 
*'  liad  given  us  letters,  was  he  bound 

to  speak  ? 
The  king  would  bear  him  out;"  and 

at  the  last — 
The   summer   of  the   vine   in   all   his 

veins — 
**  No   doubt   that   he   might    make   it 

worth  his  while. 
She  once  had  past  that  way ;  he  heard 

her  speak ; 
She  scared  him ;    life  !   he  never  saw 

the  like  ; 
She  look'd  as  grand  as  doomsday  and 

as  grave : 
And  he,  he   reverenced  his  liege-lady 

there ; 
He  always  made  a  point  to  post  with 

mares ; 
His  daughter  and  his  housemaid  were 

the  boys : 
The    land    he    understood  for    miles 

about 
"Was  tiird  by  women ;   all   the  swine 

were  sows. 
And  all  the  dogs—" 

But  while  he  jested  thus 
A  thought   flash'd   thro'  me  which  I 

cloth'd  in  act. 
Remembering  how  we  three  presented 

Maid, 
Or  Nymph,  or  Goddess,  at  high  tide  of 

feast, 
In  masque  or  pageant  at  my  father's 

court. 
We  sent  mine  host  to  purchase  female 

gear; 
He  brought  it,  and  himself,  a  sight  to 

shake 
The  midriff  of  despair  with  laughter, 

holp 


To   lace   us  up,  till  each,  in  maiden 

plumes 
We   rustled;   him   we   gave   a  costly 

bribe 
To  guerdon  silence,  mounted  our  good 

steeds. 
And  boldly  ventured  on  the  liberties. 

We  follow'd  up  the  river  as  we  rode, 

And  rode  till  midnight,  when  the  col- 
lege lights 

Began  to  glitter  fire-fly  like  in  copse 

And  linden  alley;  then  we  past  an 
arch. 

Whereon  a  woman-statue  rose  with 
wings 

Frpm  four  wing'd  horses  dark  against 
the  stars; 

And  some  inscription  ran  along  the 
front. 

But  deep  in  shadow:  further  on  we 
gain'd 

A  little  street  half  garden  and  half 
house; 

But  scarce  could  hear  each  other  speak 
for  noise 

Of  clocks  and  chimes,  like  silver  ham- 
mers falling 

On  silver  anvils,  and  the  splash  and 
stir 

Of  fountains  spouted  up  and  shower- 
ing down 

In  meshes  of  the  jasmine  and  the 
rose ; 

And  all  about  us  pealed  the  nightin- 
gale. 

Rapt  in  her  song,  and  careless  of  the 
snare. 

There  stood  a  bust  of  Pallas  for  a 

sign, 
By  two  sphere    lamps    blazon'd  like 

Heaven  and  Earth 
With  constellation  and  with  continent, 
Above  an  entry :  riding  in,  we  call'd  ; 
A  plump-arm'd  Ostlcress  and  a  stable 

wench 
Came  running  at  the  call,  and  help'd 

us  down. 
Then    stept   a  buxom   hostess   forth, 

and  sail'd. 


128 


THE  PRINCESS. 


Full  blown,  before  us  into  rooms  which 

gave 
Upon  a  pillar'd  porch,  the  bases  lost 
In  laurel :  her  we  ask'd  of  that  and 

this, 
A.nd  who  were  tutors.  *'  Lady  Blanche," 

she  said, 
''*  A.nd  Lady  Psyche."      *'  "Which  was 

prettiest, 
Best-natured?"       "Lady       Psyche." 

"  Hers  are  we," 
One  voice,  we  cried  ;  and  I  sat  down 

and  wrote, 
In  such  a  hand  as  when  a  field  of  corn 
Bows  all   its  ears  before   the  roaring 

Last: 

*'  Three  ladies  of  the  Northern  em- 
pire pray 

Your  Highness  would  enroll  them  with 
your  own, 

As  Lady  Psyche's  pupils." 

This  I  seal'd  : 

The  seal  was    Cupid  bent  above   a 
scroll, 

And    o'er    his    head   Uranian   Venus 
hung, 

And  raised  the  blinding  bandage  from 
his  eyes  : 

I  gave  the  letter  to  be  sent  with  dawn  : 

And  then  to  bed,  where  half  in  doze  I 
seem'd 

To  float  about  a  glimmering  night,  and 
watch 

A  full  sea  glazed  with  muffled  moon- 
light, swell 

On  some  dark  shore  just  seen  that  it 
was  rich. 


As  thro'  the  land  at  eve  we  went, 

And  pluck'd  the  ripen'd  ears. 
We  fell  out,  my  wife  and  I, 
O  we  fell  out  I  know  not  why, 
And  kiss'd  again  with  tears. 

For  when  we  came  where  lies  the 

child 

"We  lost  in  other  years. 
There  above  the  little  grave, 
O  there  above  the  little  grave, 

We  kiss'd  again  with  tears. 


IL 


At  break  of  day  the  College  Portress 

came : 
She  brought  us  Academic  silks,  in  hue 
The  lilac,  with  a  silken  hood  to  each. 
And  zoned  with  gold  ;  and  now  when 

these  were  Ofl, 
And  we  as  rich  as  moths  from  dusk 

cocoons, 
She,  curtseying  her  obeisance,  let  us 

know 
The  Princess  Ida  waited :  out  we  paced, 
I  first,  and  following  thro'  the  porch 

that  sang 
All    round   with    laurel,   issued  in  a 

court 
Compact  of  lucid  marbles,  boss'd  with 

lengths 
Of  classic  frieze,  with  ample  awnings 

gay 

Betwixt  the  pillars,  and  with  great  urns 

of  flowers. 
The  Muses  and  the  Graces,  group'd  in 

threes, 
Enring'd  a  billowing  fountain  in  the 

midst ; 
And  here  and  there  on  lattice  edges 

lay 
Or  book  or  lute  ;  but  hastily  we  past. 
And  up  a  flight  of  stairs  into  the  hall. 


There  at  a  board  by  tome  and  paper 
sat, 

With  two  tame  leopards  couch'd  be- 
side her  throne. 

All  beauty  compass'd  in  a  female  form, 

The  Princess  ;  liker  to  the  inhabitant 

Of  some  clear  planet  close  upon  the 
Sun, 

Than  our  man's  earth  ;  such  eyes  were 
in  her  head. 

And  so  much  grace  and  power,  breath- 
ing down 

From  over  her  arch'd  brows,  with 
every  turn 

Lived  thro'  her  to  the  tips  of  her  long 
hands. 

And  to  her  feet.  She  rose  her  height 
and  said : 


THE  PRINCESS. 


129 


**  We  give  you  welcome :  not  with- 
out redound 

Of  use  and  glory  to  yourselves  ye 
come, 

The  first-fruits  of  the  stranger :  after- 
time, 

And  that  full  voice  which  circles  round 
the  grave. 

Will  rank  you  nobly,  mingled  up  with 
me. 

What !  are  the  ladies  of  your  land  so 
tall  ? " 

*■  We  of  the  court,"  said  Cyril.  "  From 
the  court," 

She  answer'd,  "then  ye  know  the 
Pnnce  } "  and  he  : 

"ThQ  climax  of  his  age  !  as  tho'  there 
were 

One  rose  in  all  the  world,  your  High- 
ness that, 

He  worships  your  ideal."  She  replied : 

"  We  scarcely  thought  in  our  own  hall 
to  hear 

This  barren  verbiage,  current  among 
men,  [ment. 

Like  coin,  the  tinsel  clink  of  compli- 

Your  flight  from  out  your  bookless 
wilds  would  seem 

As  arguing  love  of  knowledge  and  of 
power ; 

Vour  language  proves  you  still  the 
child.     Indeed, 

We  dream  not  of  him :  when  we  set 
out  hand 

To  this  great  work,  we  purposed  with 
ourself 

Never  to  wed.  You  likewise  will  do 
well, 

Ladies,  in  entering  here,  to  cast  and 

fling 
The  tricks,  which  make  us  toys  of  men, 

that  so. 
Some  future  time,  if  so  indeed  you  will. 
You   may   with   those   self-styled   our 

lords  ally 
Your  fortunes,  justlier  balanced,  scale 
^      with  scale." 

^pAt  those  high  words,  we,  conscious 
of  ourselves. 
Perused  the  matting  ;  then  an  officer 


Rose  up,  and  read  the  statutes,  such  as 
these : 

Not  for  three  years  to  correspond  with 
home  ; 

Not  for  three  years  to  cross  the  lib- 
erties: 

Not  for  three  years  to  cpeak  with  any 
men  ; 

And   many  more,  which   hastily   sub- 
scribed, 

We    enter'd     on     the     boards ;    and 
'•  Now,"  she  cried, 

"  Ye  are  green  wood,  see  ye  warp  not. 
Look,  our  hall ! 

Our  statues ! — not  of  those  that  men 
desire, 

Sleek  Odalisques,  or  oracles  of  mode, 

Nor  stunted  squaws  of  West  or  East; 
but  she 

That  taught  the  Sabine  how  to  rule, 
and  she 

The  foundress  of  the  Babylonian  wall, 

The  Carian  Artemisia  strong  in  war, 

The  Rhodope,  that  built  the  pyramid, 

Clelia,  Cornelia,  with  the  Palmyrene 

That  fought  Aurelian,  and  the  Roman 
brows 

Of  Agrippina.    Dwell  with  these  and 
lose 

Convention,   since  to  look  on  noble 
forms 

Makes  noble  thro'  the  sensuous  organ- 
ism 

That   which    is  higher.     O   lift  your 
natures  up : 

Embrace    our  aims :    work   out  your 
freedom.    Girls, 

Knowledge  is  now  no  more  a  fountain 
seal'd : 

Drink  deep,   until   the   habits  of  the 
slave. 

The  siiis  of  emptiness  gossip  and  spite 

And  slander,  die.     Better  not  be  at 
all 

Than  not  be   noble.     Leave   us :  you 
may  go ; 

To-day  the  Lady  Psyche  will  harangue 

The  fresh  arrivals  of  the  week  before ; 

For  they  press  in  from  all  the  prov- 
inces. 

And  fill  the  hive." 


130 


THE  PRINCESS. 


She  spoke,  and  bowing  waved 
Dismissal :  back   again   we    crost  the 

court 
To  Lady  Psyche's  :  as  we  enter'd  in, 
There  sat  along  the  forms,  like  morn- 
ing doves 
That  sun  their  milky  bosoms  on  the 

thatch, 
A  patient  range  of  pupils ;  she  herself 
Erect  behind  a  desk  of  satin-wood, 
A  quick  brunette,  well-moulded,  falcon- 
eyed. 
And  on  the   hither    side,  or  so  she 

look'd, 
Of  twenty   summers.     At  her  left,   a 

child, 
In  shining  draperies,  headed  like  a  star. 
Her  maiden  babe,  a  double  April  old, 
Aglaia     slept.      We    sat ;    the    Lady 

glanced  : 
Then  Florian,  but  no  livelier  than  the 

dame 
That  whisper'd  "  Asses'  ears  "  among 

the  sedge, 
"My  sister."     "Comely    too    by    all 

that's  fair," 
Said  Cyril.    *'  O  hush,  hush  !  "  and  she 
began 

*•  This  world  was  once  a  fluid  haze  of 

light. 
Till  toward  the  centre  set  the  starry 

tides, 
And  eddied  into  suns,  that  wheeling 

cast 
The  planets  :  then  the  monster,  then 

the  man  ; 
Tattoo'd    or    woaded,    winter-clad    in 

skins. 
Raw  from  the  prime,  and  crushing  down 

his  mate  ; 
As  yet  we  find  in  barbarous  isles,  and 

here 
Among  the  lowest." 

Thereupon  she  took 
A  bird's-eye  view  of  all  the  ungracious 

past  ; 
Glanced  at  the  legendary  Amazon 
As  emblematic  of  a  nobler  age  ; 
Appraised  the  Lycian  custom,  spoke  of 

those 


That   lay  at  wine  with   Lar  and  Lu 

cumo  ; 
Ran  down  the  Persian,  Grecian,  Roman 

lines 
Of  empire,  and  the  woman's  state  in 

each, 
How  far  from  just ;  till,  warming  with 

her  theme. 
She  ful mined  out  her  scorn  of  laws 

Salique 
And    little-footed    China,   touch'd   on 

Mahomet 
With   much    contempt,  and   came   to 

chivalry  : 
When   some  respect,  however  slight, 

was  paid 
To  woman,  superstition  all  awry  : 
However  then  commenced  the  dawn : 

a  beam 
Had  slanted  forward,  falling  in  a  land 
Of  promise;  fruit  would  follow.    Deep, 

indeed, 
Their  debt  of  thanks  to  her  who  first 

had  dared 
To  leap  the  rotten  pales  of  prejudice, 
Disyoke  their  necks  from  custom,  and 

assert 
None  lordlier  than  themselves  but  that 

which  made 
Woman  and  man.     She  had  founded  ; 

they  must  build. 
Here  might  they  learn  whatever  men 

were  taught : 
Let  them  not   fear :    some  said  their 

heads  were  less  : 
Some  men's  were  small  ;  not  they  the 

least  of  men  ; 
For  often  fineness  compensated  size  : 
Besides  the  brain  was  like  the  hand, 

and  grew 
With  using  ;  thence  the  man's,  if  more, 

was  more  ; 
He  took  advantage  of  his  strength  to  be 
First  in  the  field  :  some  ages  had  been 

lost  ; 
But   woman   ripen'd   earlier,  and   her 

life 
Was  longer  ;  and  albeit  their  glorious 

names 
Were  fewer,  scatter'd  stars,  yet  since 

in  truth 


THE  PRINCESS. 


131 


The  highest  is  the  measure  of  the  man, 
And  not  the  Kaffir,  Hottentot,  Malay, 
Nor  those  horn-handed  breakers  of  the 

glebe. 
But  Homer,  Plato,  Verulam  ;  even  so 
With  woman :  and  in  arts  of  govern- 
ment 
Elizabeth  and  others  ;  arts  of  war 
The  peasant  Joan  and  others ;  arts  of 

grace 
Sappho  and  others  vied  with  any  man: 
And,  last  not  least,  she  who  had  left 

her  place, 
And  bow'd  her  state  to  them,  that  they 

might  grow 
To  use  and  power  on  this  Oasis,  lapt 
In  the  arms  of  leisure,  sacred  from  the 

blight 
Of  ancient  influence  and  scorn  ? 

At  last 
She  rose  upon  a  wind  of  prophecy 
Dilating  on  the  future  ;  "  everywhere 
Two  heads  in  council,  two  beside  the 

hearth, 
Two   in  the  tangled  business  of  the 

world. 
Two  in  the  liberal  ofifices  of  life, 
Two  plummets  dropt  for  one  to  sound 

the  abyss 
Of  science,  and    the    secrets   of  the 

mind : 
Musician,     painter,     sculptor,     critic, 

more : 
And  everywhere  the  broad  and  boun- 
teous Earth 
Should  bear  a  double  growth  of  those 

rare  souls, 
Poets,  whose  thoughts  enrich  the  blood 

of  the  world." 

She  ended  here,  and  beckon'd  us : 
the  rest 

Parted  ;  and,  glowing  full-faced  wel- 
come, she 

Began  to  address  us,  and  was  moving 
on 

In  gratulation,  till  as  when  a  boat 

Tacks,  and  the  slacken'd  sail  flaps,  all 
her  voice 

Faltering  and  fluttering  in  her  throat, 
she  cried. 


"  My  brother  !  "  **  Well,  my  sister." 
'"  O,"  she  said, 

"  What  do  you  here  .^  and  in  this  dress  ? 
and  these  ? 

Why  who  are  these  "i  a  wolf  within  thd 
fold! 

A  pack  of  wolves  !  the  Lord  be  gra- 
cious to  me  ! 

A  plot,  a  plot,  a  plot  to  ruin  all !  " 

"  No  plot,  no  plot,"  he  answer'd 
"  Wretched  boy, 

How  saw  you  not  the  inscription  on 
the  gate, 

Let  no  man  enter  in  on  pain  of 

DEATH  ?  " 

"  And   if   I   had,"  he   answer'd,  "  who 

could  think 
The  softer  Adams  of  your  Academe, 
O  sister,  Sirens  tho'  they  be,  were  such 
As  chanted  on  the  blanching  bones  of 

men .? " 
"  But  you  will  find  it  otherwise,"  she 

said. 
"  You  jest :  ill  jesting  with  edge-tools! 

my  vow 
Binds  me  to  speak,  and  O  that  iron 

will, 
That    axelike    edge    unturnable,    our 

Head, 
The  Princess."     "  Well  then,  Psyche, 

take  my  life, 
And  nail  me  like  a  weasel  on  a  grange 
For  warning :  bury  me  beside  the  gate, 
And  cut  this  epitaph  above  my  bones; 
Here  lies  a  brother  by  a  sister  slain. 
All  for  the  common  good  of  womankind? 
"-Let  me  die  too,"  said  Cyril,  "  having 

seen 
And  heard  the  Lady  Psyche." 

I  struck  in : 
"  Albeit  so  mask'd,  Madam,  I  love  the 

truth  ; 
Receive  it ;    and  in  me    behold  the 

Prince 
Your  countryman,  affianced  years  ago 
To  the  Lady  Ida :  here,  for  here  she 

was,  " 
And  thus  (what  other  way  was  left  ?)  I 

came." 
*'  O  Sir,  O  Prince,  I  have  no  country  j 

none  : 


132 


THE  PRIN-CESS. 


If  any,  this ;  but  none.  Whate'er  I 
was 

Disrooted,  what  I  am  is  grafted  here. 

Affianced,  Sir  "i  love  whibpers  may  not 
bieathe 

Within  this  vestal  limit,  and  how 
should  I, 

Who  am  not  mine,  say,  live  :  the  thun- 
derbolt 

I  langs  silent ;  but  prepare  :  I  speak  ; 
it  falls." 

"  Yet  pause,"  I  said :  "  for  that  in- 
scription there, 

I  think  no  more  of  deadly  lurks  therein, 

Than  in  a  clapper  clapping  in  a  garth, 

To  scare  the  fowl  from  fruit :  if  more 
there  be, 

If  more  and  acted  on,  what  follows  ? 
war  ; 

Your  own  work  marr'd  :  for  this  your 
Academe, 

Whichever  side  be  Victor,  in  the  hal- 
loo 

Will  topple  to  the  trumpet  down,  and 
pass  [gild 

With   all   fair  theories  only  made  to 

A  stormless  summer."  "  Let  the  Prin- 
cess judge 

Of  that,"  she  said :  "  farewell,  Sir— 
and  to  you. 

I  shudder  at  the  sequel,  but  I  go." 

*'  Are  you  that  Lady  Psyche,"  I  re- 

join'd, 
"  The  fifth  in  line  from  that  old  Flo- 

rian, 
Yet  hangs  his  portrait  in  my  father's 

hall 
(The  gaunt  old  Baron  with  his  beetle 

brow 
Sun-shaded  in  the  heat  of  dusty  fights) 
As  he  bestrode  my  Grandsire,  when  he 

fell, 
And  all  else  fled :  we  point  to  it,  and 

we  say, 
The   loyal   warmth  of   Florian  is  not 

cold. 
But  branches  current  yet  in  kindred 

veins." 
"  Are  you  that  Psyche,"  Florian  added, 

"she 


With  whom  I  sang  about  the  morning 

hills. 
Flung   ball,  flew  kite,  and  raced  the 

purple  fly. 
And  snared  the  squirrel  of  the  glen? 

are  you 
That  Psyche,  wont  to  bind  my  throb- 
bing brow, 
To  smooth  my  pillow,  mix  the  foaming 

draught 
Of  fever,  tell  me  pleasant  tales,  and 

read 
My  sickness  down  to  happy  dreams  ? 

are  you 
That    brother-sister   Psyche,   both   in 

one? 
You  were  that  Psyche,  but  what  are 

you  now .-' " 
*'  You  are  that  Psyche,"  Cyril   said, 

♦'  for  whom 
I  would  be  that  forever  which  I  seem, 
WomaUj   if  I  might  sit  beside  your 

feen 
And  glean  your  scatter'd  sapience." 

Then  once  more, 
"  Are  you  that  Lady  Psyche,"  I  began, 
*  That  on  her  bridal  morn  before  she 

past 
From  all  her  old  companions,  when  the 

king 
Kiss'd  her  pale  cheek,  declared  that  an- 
cient ties 
Would    still    be     dear    beyond    the 

southern  hills ; 
That  were   there   any  of  our  people 

there 
In  want  or  peril,  there  was  one  to  hear 
And    help   them  :  look  !   for  such  are 

these  and  I." 
"  Are  you  that  Psyche,"  Florian  ask'd, 

"  to  whom, 
In  gentler  days,  your  arrow-wounded 

fawn 
Came  flying  while  you  sat  beside  the 

well } 
The  creature  laid  his  muzzle  on  youl 

lap, 
And  sobb'd,  and  you  sobb'd  with  it, 

and  the  blood 
Was  sprinkled  on  your  kirtle,  and  yott 

wept. 


THE  PRINCESS- 


^ZZ 


That  was  fawn's  blood,  not  brother's, 
yet  you  wept. 

O  by  the  bright  head  of  my  little  niece, 

You  were  that  Psyche,  and  what  are 
you  now  ? " 

"  You   are   that    Psyche/'    Cyril   said 
again, 

"The    mother  of  the   sweetest  little 
maid, 

That  &ver  crow'd  for  kisses." 

"Out  upon  it!  " 

She  answer'd,  "peace  I  and  why  should 
I  not  play 

The  Spartan  Mother  with  emotion,  be 

The  Lucius  Junius  Brutus  of  my  kind  ? 

Him  you  call  great ;  he  for  the  com- 
mon weal. 

The  fading  politics  of  mortal  Rome, 

As  I  might  slay  this  child,  if  good  need 
were, 

Slew  both  his  sons :  and  I,  shall  I,  on 
whom 

The  secular  emancipation  turns 

Of  half  this  world,  be  swerved  from 
right  to  save 

A  prince,  a  brother  ?  a  little  will  I 
yield. 

Best  so,  perchance,  for  us,  and  well  for 
you. 

O  hard,  when  love  and  duty  clash  !  I 
fear 

My  conscience  will  not  count  me  fleck- 
less  ;  yet — 

Hear  my  conditions  :  promise  (other- 
wise 

You  perish)  as  you  came  to  slip  away. 

To-day,  to-morrow,  soon  :  it  shall   be 
said, 

These    women  were    too    barbarous, 
would  not  learn ; 

They  fled,  who  might  have  shamed  us : 
promise,  all." 

What  could  we  else,  we  promised 
each ;  and  she, 
Like  some  wild  creature  newly  caged, 

commenced 
A  to-and-fro,  so  pacing  till  she  paused 
By  Florian;  holding  out  her  lily  arms 
Took  both  his  hands,  and  smiling  faint- 
ly said  : 


'  I  knew  you  at  the  first ;  tho'  you  have 

grown 
You  scarce  have  altcr'd :  I  am  sad  and 

glad 
To  see  you,  Florian.    /  give  thee  ta 

death. 
My  brother  !  it  was  duty  spoke,  not  I. 
My  needful  seeming  harshness,  pardon 

it. 
Our  mother,  is  she  well }  " 

With  that  she  kiss'd 
His  forehead,  then,  a  moment  after, 

clung 
About  him,  and  betwixt  them  blos- 

som'd  up 
From  out  a  common  vein  of  memory 
Sweet  household  talk,  and  phrases  of 

the  hearth, 
And  far  allusion,  till  the  gracious  dews 
Began   to  glisten    and   to    fall :    and 

while 
They  stood,  so  rapt,  we  gazing,  came  a 

voice, 
"  I  K'ought  a  message  here  from  Lady 

Blanche." 
Back  started  she,  and  turning  round  wc 

saw 
The   Lady  Blanche's  daughter  where 

she  stood, 
Melissa,  with  her  hand  upon  the  lock. 
A  rosy  blonde,  and  in  a  college  gown. 
That  clad  her  like  an  April  daffodilly 
(Her   mother's    color)   with    her   lips 

apart, 
And  all  her  thoughts  as  fair  within  her 

eyes,  •  [float 

As  bottom  agates  seen   to  wave  and 
In  crystal  currents  of  clear  morning 

seas. 

So  stood  that  same  fair  creature  at 

the  door. 
Then   Lady  Psyche,  "  Ah — Melissa— 

you! 
You   heard    us  ? "   and   Melissa,   "  O 

pardon  me ! 
I  heard,  I  could  not  help  it,  did  not 

wish  : 
But  dearest  Lady,  pray  you  fear  me  not, 
Nor  think  I  bear  that  heart  within  my 

breast, 


134 


THE  PRINCESS. 


To  give   three    gallant    gentlemen   to 

death."  [two 

"  I  trust  you,"  said  the  other,  "  for  we 

Were  always  friends,  none  closer,  elm 

and  vine  : 
But  yet  your  mother's  jealous  temper- 
ament— 
Let  not  your  prudence,  dearest,  drowse, 

or  prove 
The  Uanaid  of  a  leaky  vase,  for  fear 
This  whole  foundation  ruin,  and  I  lose 
My  honor,   these  their  lives."      "  Ah, 

fear  me  not," 
jReplied    Melissa  ;    "  no — I  would  not 

tell, 
No,  not  for  all  Aspasia's  cleverness, 
No,  not  to  answer.  Madam,  all  those 

hard  things 
That  Sheba  came  to  ask  of  Solomon." 
"  Be  it  so,"  the  other,  "  that  we  still 

may  lead 
The  new  light  up,  and  culminate  in 

peace. 
For  Solomon  may  come  to  Sheba  yet." 
Said  Cyril,  "  Madam,  he  the  wisest  man 
Feasted  the  woman  wisest  then,  in  halls 
Of  Lebanonian  cedar  :  nor  should  you 
(Tho'  Madam  you  should  answer,  we 
would  ask)  [came 

Less  welcome  find  among  us,  if  you 
Among  us,  debtors  for  our  lives  to  you, 
Myself  for  something  more."     He  said 

not  what. 
But  "  Thanks,"  she  answer'd,  "go:  we 

have  been  too  long 
Together :  keep  your  hoods  about  the 

face; 
They  do  so  that  affect  abstraction  here. 
Speak  little;  mix  not  with  the  rest; 

and  hold 
Your  promise  ;  all,  I  trust,  raay  yet  be 
well." 

We  turn'd  to  go,  but  Cyril  took  the 
child, 

And  held  her  round  the  knees  against 
his  waist, 

And  blew  the  swoll'n  cheelo  of  a  trum- 
peter, 

While  Psyche  watch'd  them,  siwlixig, 
and  the  child 


Push'd  her  flat  hand  against  his  face 

and  laugh 'd  ; 
And  thus  our  conference  closed. 

And  then  we  strolled 
For  half  the  day  thro'  stately  theatres 
Bench'd  crescent-wise.     In  each  we  sat 

we  heard 
The  grave  Professor.     On  the  lecture 

slate 
The  circle  rounded  under  female  hands 
With  flawless  demonstration  ;  follow'd 

then 
A  classic  lecture,  rich  in  sentiment, 
With  scraps  of  thunderous  Epic  lilted 

out 
By  violet-hooded  Doctors,  elegies 
And  quoted  odes,  and  jewels  five-words- 
long 
That  on  the  stretch'd  forefinger  of  all 

Time 
Sparkle  forever :  then  we  dipt  in  all 
That  treats  of  whatsoever  is,  the  state. 
The  total  chronicles  of  man,  the  mind. 
The  morals,  something   of  the  frame, 

the  rock, 
The  star,  the  bird,  the  fish,  the  shell, 

the  flower. 
Electric,  chemic  laws,  and  all  the  rest. 
And   whatsoever   can  be  taught  and 

known ; 
Till  like  three  horses  that  have  broken 

fence. 
And  glutted  all  night  long  breast-deep 

ni  corn, 
We  issued  gorged  with  knowledge,  and 

I  spoke  : 
"  Why  Sirs,  they  do  all  this  as  well  as 

we." 
"They  hunt    old  trials,'''  said   Cyril, 

"very  well  ; 
But  when  did  woman  ever  yet  invent  ? " 
"  Ungracious  I  "      answer'd     Florian, 

"  have  you  learnt 
No  more  from  Psyche's  lecture,  you 

that  talk'd 
The  trash  that  made  me  sick,  and  al- 
most sad  .'' " 
"  O  trash/'  he  said,  "  but  with  a  kernel 

in  it. 
Should  I  not  call  her  wise,  who  made 

me  wise .'' 


THE  PRINCESS. 


'^35 


And  learnt  ?  I  learnt  more  from  her  in 

a  flash, 
Than  if  my  brainpan  were   an  empty 

hull, 
And  every  Muse  tumbled  a  science  in, 
A  thousand  hearts  lie  fallow  in  these 

halls, 
And  round  these  halls  a  thousand  baby 

loves 
Fly  twanging  headless  arrows  at  the 

hearts, 
Whence  follows  many  a  vacant  pang  ; 

butO 
With  me.  Sir,  enter'd  in  the  bigger  boy, 
The  Head  of  all  the  golden-shafted  firm, 
The  long  limb'd  lad  that  had  a  Psyche 

too ;  [now 

He  cleft  me  thro'  the  stomacher  ;  and 
What  think  you  of  it,   Florian  ?  do  I 

chase 
The  substance  or  the  shadow  ?  will  it 

hold  ? 
1  have  no  sorcerer's  malison  on  me, 
No  ghostly  hauntings  like  his   High- 
ness.    I 
Flatter  myself  that  always  everywhere 
I   know  the  substance  when  1  see  it. 

well, 
Are  castles  shadows  ?     Three  of  them  ? 

is  she  [not. 

The  sweet  proprietress  a  shadow  ?     If 
Shall  those  three  castles  patch  my  tat- 

ter'd  coat  ? 
For  dear  are  those  three  castles  to  my 

wants. 
And  dear  is  sister  Psyche  to  my  heart, 
And  two  dear  things  are  one  of  double 

worth, 
And  much  I  might  have  said,  but  that 

my  zone 
Unmann'd  me  :  then  the  Doctors  !  O  to 

hear 
The  Doctors !  O  to  watch  the   thirsty 

plants 
Imbibing !  once  or  twice  I  thought  to 

roar. 
To  break  my  chain,  to  shake  my  mane  : 

but  thou. 
Modulate  me.  Soul  of  mincing  mimicry  ! 
Make  liquid  treble  of  that  bassoon  my 

throat : 


Abase  those  eyes  that  ever  loved  to 

meet 
Star-sisters   answering   under  crescent 

brows  ; 
Abate  the  stride,  which  speaks  of  man, 

and  loose 
A  flying  charm  of    blushes    o'er    this 

cheek, 
Where  they  like  swallows  coming  out 

of  time 
W^ill  wonder  why  they  came ;  but  hark 

the  bell 
For  dinner,  let  us  go  ! " 

And  in  we  streamed 
Among  the  columns,  pacing  staid  and 

still 
By  twos  and  threes,  till  all  from   end 

to  end 
With  beauties  every  shade  of  brown 

and  fair. 
In  colors  gayer  than  the  morning  mist. 
The  long  hall  glitter'd  like  a  bed  of 

flowers.  [wits 

How  might  a  man  not  wander  from  his 
Pierced  thro'  with  eyes,  but  that  I  kept 

mine  own 
Intent   on   her,   who   rapt  in  glorious 

dreams. 
The  second-sight  of  some  Astraean  age, 
Sat  compass'd  with  professors  ;   they, 

the  while, 
Discuss'd  a  doubt  and  tost  it  to  and  fro : 
A  clamor  thicken'd,  mixt  with   inmost 

terms 
Of    art    and  science :  Lady     Blanche 

alone 
Of   faded   form  and  haughtiest  linea- 
ments. 
With  all  her  Autumn  tresses  falsely 

brown, 
Shot  sidelong  daggers  at  us,  a  tiger-cat 
In  act  to  spring. 

At  last  a  solemn  grace  , 
Concluded,  and  we  sought  the  gardens  : 

there 
One  walk'd  reciting  by  herself,  and  one 
In  this  hand  held  a  volume  as  to  read, 
And  smoothed  a  peacock  down  with 

that: 
Some  to  a  low  song  oar'd  a  shallop  by, 
Or  under  arches  of  the  marble  bridge 


iS': 


T//E  PRINCESS. 


Hung,  shadow'd  from  the  heat  :  some 

hid  and  sought 
In  the  orange  thickets :  others  tost  a 

ball 
Above  the  fountain-jets,  and  back  again 
With  laughter :    others  lay  about  the 

lawns, 
Of  the  older  sort,  and  murmur'd  that 

their  May 
Was  passing  :  what  was  learning  unto 

them  ? 
They  wish'd  to  marry  ;  they  could  rule 

a  house  ; 
Men    hated    learned  women :    but  we 

three 
Sat  muffled  like  the  Fates ;  and  often 

came 
Melissa  hitting  all  we  saw  with  shafts 
Of  gentle  satire,  kin  to  charity, 
That   harm'd  not  :    then   day  droopt ; 

the  chapel  bells 
Call'd  us  :  we  left  the  walks  ;  Ave  mixt 

with  those 
Six   hundred  maidens  clad   in   purest 

white, 
Before  two  streams  of  light  from  wall 

to  wall, 
Wliile  the  great  organ  almost  burst  his 

pipes, 
Groaning  for  power,  and  rolling  thro' 

the  court 
A  long  melodious  thunder  to  the  sound 
Of  solemn  psalms,  and  silver  litanies. 
The  work  of  Ida,  to  call  down  from 

Heaven 
A  blessing  on  her  labors  for  the  world. 


Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low. 

Wind  of  the  western  sea, 
Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow. 

Wind  of  the  western  sea  1 
Over  the  rolling  waters  go. 
Come  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow, 

Blow  him  again  to  me  ; 
While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty 

one,  sleeps. 
Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest. 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon 
Rest,  rest,  on  mother's  breast. 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon  ; 
Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest, 


Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 

Under  the  silver  moon  : 
Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty 
one,  sleep. 

III. 

Morn   in   the  white  wake   of    the 

m.orning  star 
Came  furrowing  all  the  orient  into  gold. 
We  rose,  and  each  by  other  drest  with 

care 
Descended  to  the  court  that  lay  three 

parts 
In  shadow,  but  the  Muses^  heads  were 

touch'd 
Above  the  darkness  from  their  native 

East. 

There   while   we   stood    beside    the 

fount  and  watch'd 
Or  seem'd  to  watch   the  dancing  bub- 
ble, approach'd 
Melissa,  tinged  with  wan  from  lack  of 

sleep. 
Or  grief,  and  glowing  round  her  dewy 

eyes 
The  circled  Iris  of  a  night  of  tears; 
"  And  fly,"  she  cried,  "  O  fly,  while  yet 

you  may  ■ 
My  mother  knows  :  "  and  when  I  ask'd 

her  how," 
"  My  fault,"  she  wept,  "  my  fault !  and 

yet  not  mine ; 
Yet  mine  in  part.     O  hear  me,  pardon 

me. 
My  mother,  'tis  her  wont  from  night  to 

night 
To  rail  at  Lady  Psyche  and  her  side- 
She  says  the  Princess  should  have  been 

the  Head, 
Herself  and  Lady  Psyche  the  two  arms ; 
And  so  it  was  agreed  when  first  they 

came; 
But  Lady  Psyche  was  the  right  hand 

now, 
And  she   the   left,  or  not,  or  seldom 

used ; 
Hers  more  than  half  the  students,  all 

the  love. 
And  so  last  night  she   fell  to  canvass 

you  : 


THE  PRINCESS. 


»37 


*'  Her  countrywomen  !  she  did  not  envy 

her. 
Who  ever  saw  such  wild  barbarians  ? 
Girls  ? — more  like  men  !  "  and  at  these 

words  the  snake, 
My   secret,   seem'd   to  stir  within  my 

breast ; 
And   O,  Sirs,  could  I  help   it,  but  my 

cheek 
Began  to  burn  and  burn,  and  her  lynx 

eye 
To  fix  and  make  me   hotter,  till  she 

laugh'd  : 
"  O  marvellously  modest  maiden,  you  ! 
Men  !  girls,  like  men !  why,  if  they  had 

been  men 
You  need  not  set  your  thoughts   in 

rubric  thus 
For  wholesome  comment  "     Pardon,  I 

am  shamed 
That  I  must  needs  repeat  for  my  excuse 
What  looks  so  little  graceful ;  "  men  " 

(for  still 
My  mother  went  revolving  on  the  word) 
"  And  so  they  are, — very  like  men  in- 
deed— 
And  with    that   woman    closeted  for 

hours  !  '• 
Then  came  these  dreadful  words  out 

one  by  one, 
"  Why  —  these  — are  —  men  r"  I  shud- 

der'd  :  "  and  you  know  it." 
**  O  ask  me  nothing,"  I  said ;  "  And 

she  knows  too. 
And  she  conceals  it."     So  my  mother 

clutch'd 
The  truth  at  once,  but  with  no  word 

from  me  ; 
And  now  thus  early  risen  she  goes  to 

inform 
The   Princess ;    Lady  Psyche  will   be 

crush'd ; 
But  you  may  yet  be  saved,  and  there- 
fore fly :  [go." 
But  heal  me  with  your  pardon  ere  you 

"  What  pardon,  sweet  Melissa,  for  a 

blush  ? " 
Said  Cyril  :  "  Pale  one,  blush  again  : 

than  wear 
Those  lilies,  better  blush  our  lives  away 


Yet  let  us  breathe  for  one  hour  more  in 

Heaven  " 
He  added,  "  lest  some  classic  Angel 

speak 
In  scorn  of  us,  *  they  mounted,  Gany- 

medes. 
To  tumble,   Vulcans,  on  the  second 

morn.' 
But  I  will  melt  this  marble  into  wax 
To  yield  us  farther  furlough  :  "  and  he 

went. 

Melissa  shook  her  doubtful  curls, 

and  thought 
He  scarce  would  prosper.     "Tell  us," 

Florian  ask'd, 
"  How  grew  this  feud  betwixt  the  right 

and  left." 
"  O  long  ago," she  said,  "betwixt  these 

two 
Division    smoulders  hidden  ;  'tis  my 

mother, 
Too  jealous,  often  fretful  as  the  wind 
Pent  in  a  crevice:  much  I  bear  with 

her: 
I  never  knew  my  father,  but  she  says 
(God  help  her)'  she  was  wedded  to  a 

fool; 
And  still  she  rail'd  against  the  state  of 

things 
She  had  the  care  of  Lady  Ida's  youth, 
And   from  the   Queen's   decease  she 

brought  her  up. 
But  when  your  sister  came  she  won  the 

heart 
Of  Ida:  they  were  still  together,  grew 
(For  so  they  said  themselves)  inoscu- 
lated ; 
Consonant  chords  that  shiver  to  one 

note ; 
One  mind  in  all  things :  yet  my  mother 

still 
Affirms    your     Psyche     thieved     her 

theories, 
And  angled  with  them  for  her  pupil's 

love : 
She  calls  her  plagiarist ;  I  know  not 

what : 
But  I  must  go  :  I  dare  not  tarry,"  and 

light, 
As  flies  the  shadow  of  a  bird,  she  fled. 


138 


THE  PRINCESS. 


Then  murmur'd  Florian,  gazing  after 

her; 
*•  An  open-hearted  maiden,  true   and 

pure, 
^f  I  could  love,  why  this  were  she :  how 

pretty 
Her  blushing  was,  and  how  she  blush'd 

again, 
As  if  to  close  with  Cyril's  random  wish : 
Not  like  your  Princess  cramm'd  with 

erring  pride. 
Nor  like  poor  Psyche  whom  she  drags 

in  tow." 

"  The  crane,'*  I  said,  '*  may  chatter 

of  the  crane. 

The  dove  may  murmur  of  the  dove,  but  I 

An  eagle  clang  an  eagle  to  the  sphere. 

My  princess,  O  my  prmcess  !  true  she 

errs, 
But  in  her  own  grand  way ;  being  her- 
self 
Three   times  more  noble  than  three- 
score of  men, 
She  sees  herself  in  every  woman  else. 
And  so  she  wears  her  error  like  a  crown 
To  bUnd  the  truth  and  me :  for  her, 

and  her, 
Hebes  are  they  to  hand  ambrosia-,  mix 
The  nectar;    but — ah  she  —  whene'er 

she  moves 
The  Samian  Here  rises  and  she  speaks 
A  Memnon  smitten  with  the  morning 
Sun." 

So  saying,  from  the  court  we  paced, 

and  gain'd 
The  terrace  ranged  along  the  Northern 

front. 
And  leaning  there  on  those  balusters, 

high 
Above  the  empurpled  champaign,drank 

the  gale 
That  blown  about  the  foliage  under- 
neath, 
And  sated  with  the  innumerable  rose, 
Beat  balm  upon  our  eyelids.     Hither 

came 
Cyril,  and  yawning  **  O  hard  task,"  he 

cried ; 
"  No  fighting  shadows  here  1  I  forced  a 

way 


Thro'    solid   opposition   crabb'd    and 

gnarl'd. 
Better  to  clear  prime  forests,  heave  and 

thump 
A  league  of  street  in  summer  solstice 

down. 
Than  hammer  at  this  reverend  gentle- 
woman 
I  knock'd  and,  bidden,  enter'd  ;  found 

her  there 
At  point  to  move,  and  settled  in  her 

eyes 
The  green  malignant  light  of  coming 

storm. 
Sir,  I  was  courteous,  every  phrase  well- 
oil 'd. 
As  man's  could  be  :  yet  maiden-meek 

I  pray'd 
Concealment :  she  demanded  who  we 

were,  [fair, 

And  why  we  came  ?     I  fabled  nothing 
But,  your  example  pilot,  told  her  all. 
Up  went  the  hush'd  amaze  of  hand  and 

eye. 
But  when  I  dwelt  upon  your  old  affiance, 
She  answer' d  sharply  that  I  talk'd  astray. 
I  urged  the   fierce  inscription  on  the 

gate, 
And  our  three  lives.     True — we  had 

limed  ourselves. 
With  open  eyes,  and  we  must  take  the 

chance. 
But  such  extremes,  I  told  her,  well 

might  harm 
The  woman's  cause.     "  Not  more  than 

now,"  she  said, 
"  So  puddled  as  it  is  with  favoritism." 
I  tried   the    mother's   heart.     Shame 

might  befall 
Melissa,  knowing,  saying  not  she  knew : 
Her  answer  was,  "  Leave  me  to  deal 

with  that." 
I  spoke  of  war  to  come  and  many 

deaths. 
And  she  replied,  her  duty  was  to  speak, 
And  duty  d-uty,  clear  of  consequences. 
I  grew  discouraged,  Sir,  but  since  I 

knew 
No  rock  so  hard  but  that  a  little  wave 
May  beat    admission  in  a  thousand 

years. 


THE  PRINCESS. 


f39 


I  recommenced  :  "  Decide  not  ere  you 
pause. 

I  find  you  here  but  in  the  second  place, 

Some  say  the  third — the  authentic 
foundress  you. 

I  offer  boldly ;  we  will  seat  you  highest : 

iVink  at  our  advent  :  help  my  prince 
to  gain 

His  rightful  bride,  and  here  I  promise 
you 

Some  palace  in  our  land,  where  you 
shall  reign 

The  head  and  heart  of  all  our  fair  she- 
world, 

And  your,  great  name  flow  on  with 
broadening  time 

Forever."  Well,  she  balanced  this  a 
little, 

And  told  me  she  would  answer  us  to- 
day, 

Meantime  be  mute  :  thus  much,  nor 
more  I  gain'd." 

He   ceasing,   came  a  message  from 

the  Head. 
"  That  afternoon  the  Princess  rode 

to  take 
The  dip  of  certain  strata  to  the  North. 
Would  we  go  with  her.?  we  should  find 

the  land 
Worth  seeing  ;  and  the  river  made  a 

fall 
Out  yonder  ;  "  then  she  pointed  on  to 

where 
A  double  hill  ran  up  his  furrowy  forks 
Beyond  the  thick-leaved  platans  of  the 

vale. 

Agreed  to  this,  the  day  fled  on  thro' 

all 
Its  range  of  duties  to  the  appointed 

hour. 
Then  summon'd  to  the  porch  we  went. 

She  stood 
Among   her  maidens,   higher  by   the 

head. 
Her  back  against  a  pillar,  her  foot  on 

one 
Of  those  tame  leopards.     Kittenlike  he 

roll'd 
And  paw'd  about  her  sandal.     I  drew 

near  : 


I   gazed.      On   a  sudden    my  strange 

seizure  came 
Upon  me,  the  weird  vision  of  eur  hou'5e: 
The  Princess  Idaseem'd  a  hollow  show, 
Her  gay-furr'd  cats  a  painted  fantasy. 
Her  college  and  her   maidens  empty 

masks, 
And  I  myself  the  shadow  of  a  dream, 
For  all  things  were  and  were  not.     Yet 

1  felt 
My  heart  beat  thick  with  passion  and 

with  awe  ; 
Then  from   my  breast  the  involuntary 

sigh 
Brake,  as  she  smote  me  with  the  light 

of  eyes 
That  lent  my  knee  desire  to  kneel,  and 

shook 
My  pulses,  till  to  horse  we  got,  and  so 
Went   forth   in   long  retinue  following 

The  river  as  it  narrow'd  to  the  hills. 

I  rode  beside  her  and  to  me  she  said  : 
"  O  friend,  we  trust  that  you  esteem'd 

us  not 
Too   harsh  to  your  companion  yester- 

morn  ; 
Unwillingly  we  spake."     **No — not  to 

her," 
I  answer'd,  "  but   to   one  of  whom  we 

spake 
Your  Highness  might  have  seem'd  the 

thing  you  say." 
"  Again  1 "  she  cried,  "  are  you  ambas- 
sadresses 
From  him  to  me  ?  we  give  you,  being 

strange, 
A  license  ;  speak,  and  let  the  topic  die." 

I  stammer'd  that  I  knew  him — could 
have  wish'd — 
"  Our  king  expects — was  there  no  pre- 
contract ? 
There  is  no  truer-hearted — ah,you  seem 
All  he  prefigured,  and  he  could  not  see 
The  bird  of   -assage  flying  south  but 

long'd 
To  follow  :  surely,  if  your   Highness 

keep 
Your  purport,  you  will  shock  him  ev'n 
to  death. 


140 


THE  PRINCESS. 


Or  baser  courses,  children  of  despair  " 
"  Poor  boy,"  she  said,  *'  can  he  not 

read — no  books  ? 
Quoit,    tennis,  ball  —  no   games?    nor 

deals  in  that 
Which  men  delight  in,  martial  exercise  ? 
To  nurse  a  blind  ideal  like  a  girl, 
Methinks  he  seems  no  better  than  a 

girl  ; 
As  girls  were  once,  as  we  ourself  have 

been  : 
We  had  our  dreams  ;  perhaps  he  mixt 

with  them  : 
We  touch  on  our  dead  self,  nor  shun 

to  do  it, 
Being  other — since  we  learnt  our  mean- 
ing here, 
To  lift  the  woman's  fall'n  divinity. 
Upon  an  even  pedestal  with  man" 

She  paused,  and  added  with  ahaugh 

tier  smile  : 
"And  as  to  precontracts,  we  move,  my 

friend. 
At  no  man's  beck,  but  know  ourself  and 

thee,  [out 

0  Vashti,  noble   Vashti!     Summon'd 
She  kept  her  state,  and  left  the  drunken 

king 
To  brawl  at  Shushan  underneath  the 
palms." 

"  Alas  your  Highness  breathes  full 
East,"  I  said, 
•'  On  that  which  leans  to  you.     I  know 
the  Prince, 

1  prize  his  truth  :  and  then  how  vast  a 

work 
To  assail   this  gray  pre-eminence   of 

man ! 
You  grant  me  license ;  might  I  use  it  ? 

think, 
Ere  half  be  done  perchance  your  life 

may  fail : 
Then  comes  the  feebler  heiress  of  your 

plan. 
And  takes  and  ruins  all ;  and  thus  your 

pains 
May  only  make  that  footprint  upon  sand 
Which  old-recurring  waves  of  prejudice 
Resmooth  to  nothing :  might  I  dread 

that  you, 


With  only  Fame  for  spouse  and  youf 

great  deeds 
For  issue,  yet   may  live  in  vain,  and 

miss, 
Meanwhile,  what  every  woman  counts 

her  due, 
Love,  children,  happiness?" 

And  she  exclaim'd, 
"  Peace,   you   young    savage    of    the 

Northern  wild  ! 
What !   tho'  your   Prince's  love  were 

like  a  God's, 
Have  we  not  made  ourself  the  sacrifice  ? 
You  are  bold  indeed  :  we  are  not  talk'd 

to  thus:  • 

Yet  will  we  say  for  children,  would  they 

grew 
Like  field-flowers  everywhere  !  we  like 

them  well ; 
But  children  die  ;  and  let  me  tell  you, 

girl,  [die ; 

Howe'er  you  babble,  great  deeds  cannot 
They  with  the  sun  and  moon   renew 

their  light 
Forever,  blessing  those  that  look  on 

them. 
Children — that  men  may  pluck  them 

from  our  hearts, 
Kill  us  with  pity,  break  us  with  our- 
selves— 
O — children — there  is  nothing  upon 

earth  [son 

More   miserable  than  she  that  has  a 
And  sees  him  err  :  nor  would  we  work 

for  fame  ; 
Tho'  she  perhaps  might  reap  the  ap- 
plause of  Great, 
Who  learns  the  one  Pou  sto  whence 

after-hands 
May  move  the  world,  tho'  she  herself 

effect 
But  little  :  wherefore  up  and  act,  nor 

shrink 
For  fear  our  solid  aim  be  dissipated 
By  frail  successors.     Would,  indeed, 

we  had  been, 
In  lieu  of  many  mortal  flies,  a  race 
Of  giants  living,  each,  a  thousand  years. 
That  we  might  see  our  own  work  out, 

and  watch 
The  sandy  footprint  harden  vMo  stone" 


THE  PRINCESS. 


141 


I  answer'd  nothing,  doubtful  in  my- 
self 

If  that  strange  Poet-princess  with  her 
grand 

Imaginations  might  at  all  be  won. 

And  she  broke  out  interpreting  my 
thoughts 

"  No  doubt  we  seem  a  kind  of  mon- 
ster to  you ; 
We  are  used  to  that  :  for  women,  up 

till  this 
Cramp'd  under  worse  than  South-sea- 
isle  taboo, 
Dwarfs  of  the  gynaeceum,  fail  so  far 
In  high  desire,  they  know  not,  cannot 

guess 
How  much  their  welfare  is  a  passion  to 

us 
If  we  could  give  them  surer,  quicker 

proof — 
O  if  our  end  were  less  achievable 
By  slow  approaches,  than  by  single  act 
Of  immolation,  any  phase  of  death, 
We  were  as  prompt  to  spring  against 

the  pikes. 
Or  down  the  fiery  gulf  as  talk  of  it. 
To  compass  our  dear  sisters'  liberties." 

She  bow'd  as  if  to  veil  a  noble  tear ; 
And  up  we  came  to  where  the  river 

sloped 
To  plunge  in  cataract,  shattering  on 

black  blocks 
A  breath  of  thunder.     O'er  it  shook 

the  woods, 
And  danced  the    color,  and,   below, 

stuck  out 
The  bones  of  some  vast  bulk  that  lived 

and  roar'd 
Before   man  was.     She  gazed  awhile 

and  said, 
**  As  these  rude  bones  to  us,  are  we  to 

her 
That  will  be."    "  Dare  we  dream  of 

that."  I  ask'd, 
*  Which  wrought  us,  as  the  workman 

and  his  work, 
That  practice  betters  t "    '*  How,"  she 

cried,  "  you  love 
The  metaphysics  1  read  and  earn  our 

prize, 


A  golden  broach  :  beneath  an  emerald 

plane 
Sits  Diotima,  teaching  him  that  died 
Of  hemlock ;  our  device  ;  wrought  to 

the  life  ; 
She  rapt  upon  her  subject,  he  on  her : 
For  there  are  schools  for  all."     "  And 

yet,"  I  said, 
"  Methinks  I  have   not  found  among 

them  all  [ihat," 

One  anatomic."     "  Nay,  we  thought  of 
She  answer'd,  *'  but  it  pleased  us  not ; 

in  truth 
We  shudder  but  to  dream  our  maids 

should  ape 
Those  monstrous  males  that  carve  the 

living  hound. 
And  cram  him  with  the  fragments  of 

the  grave, 
Or  in  the  dark  dissolving  human  heart, 
And  holy  secrets  of  this  microcosm, 
Dabbling  a  shameless  hand  with  shame- 
ful jest, 
Encarnalize  their  spirits  :  yet  we  knew 
Knowledge    is    knowledge,   and    this 

matter  hangs  : 
Howbeit  ourself,  foreseeing  casualty, 
Nor  willing  men  should  come  amon^ 

us,  learnt, 
For  many  weary  moons  before  we  came. 
This  craft  of  healing.     Were  you  sick, 

ourself 
Would  tend  upon  you.     To  your  ques- 
tion now. 
Which  touches  on  the  workman  and 

his  work. 
Let  there  be  light  and  there  was  light : 

'tis  so : 
For  was,  and  is,  and  will  be,  are  but  is; 
And  all  creation  is  one  act  at  once, 
The  birth  of  light :  but  we  that  are  not 

all, 
As  parts,  can  see  but  parts,  now  this, 

now  that. 
And   live,  perforce,  from  thought   to 

thought,  and  make 
One  act  a  phantom  of  succession  :  thus 
Our   weakness   somehow   shapes    the 

shadow.  Time  ; 
But  in  the  shadow  will  we  work,  an« 

mould 


142 


THE  PRINCESS. 


The  woman  to  the  fuller  day." 

She  spake 
With  kindled  eyes :  we  rode  a  league 

beyond,  {ing, 

And,  o'er  a  bridge  of  pinevvood  cross- 
came 
On  flowery  levels  underneath  the  crag, 
Full  of  all  beauty.     "  O  how  sweet,"  I 

said, 
(For  I  was  half-oblivious  of  my  mask,) 
'*■  To  linger  here  with  one  that  loved 

us."     "  Yea," 
She  answer'd,  *'  or  with  fair  philoso- 
phies 
That  lift  the  fancy ;  for  indeed  these 

fields 
Are   lovely,   lovelier  not  the   Elysian 

lawns, 
Where   paced  the  Demigods  of  old, 

and  saw 
The    soft    white    vapor    streak    the 

crowned  towers 
Built  to  the  Sun :  "  then,  turning  to  her 

maids, 
*•  Pitch    our  pavilion  here    upon   the 

sward ; 
Lay  out  the  yiands."  At  the  word,  they 

raised 
A  tent  of  satin,  elaborately  wrought 
With  fair  Corinna's  triumph  ;  here  she 

stood, 
Engirt  with  many  a  florid  maiden-cheek. 
The   woman-conqueror:    woman    con- 

quer'd  there 
The  bearded  Victor  of  ten-thousand 

hymns, 
And  all  the  men  mourned  at  his  side  : 

but  we 
Set  forth  to  climb ;  then,  climbing,  Cyril 

kept 
With  Psyche,  with  Melissa  Florian,  I 
With   mine   affianced.     Many   a  little 

hand 
Glanced  like  a  touch  of  sunshine  on 

the  rocks. 
Many  a  light  foot  shone  like  a  jewel  set 
In  the  dark  crag  :  and  then  we  turn'd, 

we  wound 
About  the  cliffs,  the  copses,  out  and  in, 
Hammering  and    clinking,  chattering 

stony  names 


Of  shale  and  hornblende,  rag  and  trap 

and  tuff, 
Amygdaloid  and  trachyte,  till  the  Sun 
Grew  broader  toward  his  death  and  fell, 

and  all 
The  rosy  heights  came  out  above  the 

lawns. 


The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story  ; 

The   long   light   shakes   across   the 

lakes 

And   the   wild    cataract   leaps   in 

glory. 

Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes 

flying, 
Blow,  bugle  ;  answer,  echoes,   dying, 
dying,  dying, 

O  hark,  O  hear  !  how  thin  and  clear. 
And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going! 
O  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 
The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blow- 
ing ! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  re- 
plying : 
Blow,   bugle;  answer,   echoes,   dying, 
dying,  dying 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky. 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river: 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 
And  grow  forever  and  forever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes 

flying. 
And  answer,   echoes,  answer,  dying, 
dying,  dying. 

IV, 

"  There  sinks  the  nebulous  star  we 

call  the  Sun, 
If  that  hypothesis  of  theirs  be  sound," 
Said   Ida ;   "  let  us  down  and  rest : " 

and  we 
Down   from    the  lean    and  wrinkled 

precipices, 
By  every  coppice-feather'd  chasm  and 

cleft, 
Dropt  thro'  the  ambrosial  gloom  to 

where  below 


THE  PRINCESS. 


14a 


No  bigger  than  a  glow-worm  shone  the 

tent 
Lamp-lit   from    the    inner.     Once    she 

lean'd  on  me, 
Descending :  once    or   twice   she   lent 

her  hand, 
And  blissful  palpitations  in  the  blood, 
Stirring  a  sudden   transport  rose  and 

fell. 

But  when  we  planted  level  feet,  and 

dipt 
Beneath  the  satin  dome  and  enter'd  in, 
There  leaning  deep  in  broider'd  down 

we  sank 
Our  elbows :  on  a  tripod  in  the  midst 
A  fragrant  flame   rose,  and   before  us 

glow'd 
Fruit,  blossom,  viand,  amber  wine,  and 

gold. 

Then  she,  "  Let  some  one  sing  to  us  : 

lightlier  move 
The  minutes  fledged  with  music  :  "  and 

a  maid, 
Of  those  beside  her,  smote  her  harp, 

aYid  sang. 

"  Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what 

they  mean, 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine 

despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to   the 

eyes. 
In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn-fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days   that  are  no 

more. 

"  Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering 

on  a  sail, 
That  brings   our   friends  up  from   the 

under- world. 
Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the 

verge ; 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no 

more. 

I*  Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  sum- 
mer dawns 
The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awaken'd  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 


The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmer- 

ing  square  ; 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no 

more. 

*'  Dear   as  remember'd  kisses  after 

death, 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy 

feign'd 
On  lips  that   are  for  others :  deep  as 

love. 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all 

regret ; 
O  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no 

more." 

She  ended  with  such  passion  that  the 

tear, 
She  sang  of,  shook  and  fell,  an  erring 

pearl 
Lost   in    her  bosom:   but   with    some 

disdain 
Answer' d  the   Princess:    "If    indeed 

there  haunt 
About  the  moulder'd  lodges   of    the 

Past 
So  sweet  a  voice   and  vague,  fatal   to 

men. 
Well  needs  it  we  should  cram  our  ears 

with  wool 
And  so  pace  by :  but  thine  are  fancies 

hatch'd 
In  silken-folded  idleness;  nor  is  it 
Wiser  to  weep  a  true  occasion  lost. 
But  trim  our  sails,  and  let  old  bygones 

be, 
While  down  the  streams  that  float  us 

each  and  all 
To  the  issue,  goes,  like  glittering  bergs 

of  ice,  . 
Throne  after  throne,  and  molten  on  thg 

waste 
Becomes  a  cloud  :  for  all  things  serve 

their  time 
Toward  that  great  year  of  equal  mights 

and  rights, 
Nor  would  I  fight  with  iron  laws,  in 

the  end 
Found  golden :  let  the  past  be  past ; 

let  be 
Their  cancell'd  Babels:  tho'  the  rough 

kex  break 


144 


THE  PRINCESS. 


The  starr'd  mosaic,  and  the  wild  goat 

hang 
Upon  the  shaft,  and  the  wild  fig-tree 

split 
Their  monstrous  idols,  care  not  while 

we  hear 
A  trumpet  in  the  distance  pealing  news 
Of  better,  and  Hope,  a  poising  eagle, 

burns 
Above  the  unrisen  morrow :  "  then  to 

me, 
*  Know  you  no  song  of  your  own  land,' ' 

she  said, 
"  Not  such  as  moans  about  the  retro- 
spect, 
But  deals  with  the  other  distance  and 

the  hues 
Of  promise  ;  not  a  death's-head  at  the 

wine." 

Then  I  remember'd  one  myself  had 
made, 

What  time  I  watch'd  the  swallow  wing- 
ing south 

From  mine  own  land,  part  made  long 
since,  and  part  [far 

Now  while  I  sang,  and  maidenlike  as 

As  I  could  ape  their  treble,  did  I  sing. 

•  O  Swallow,  Swallow,  flying,  flying 

South,  (eaves, 

Flv  to  her,  and  fall  upon  her  gilded 
And  tell  her,  tell  her  what  I  tell  to 

t'hee. 
*'  O   tell    her,   Swallow,   thou    that 

knowest  each, 
That  bright  and  fierce  and  fickle  is  the 

South, 
And  dark  and  true  and  tender  is  the 

North. 

'  O  Swallow,  Swallow,  if  I  could  fol- 
low and  light  [trill, 
Upon  her  lattice,  I  would  pipe   and 
And  cheep  and  twitter  twenty  million 
loves. 

•'  O  were  I  thou  that  she  might  take 

me  in. 
And  lay  me  on  her   bosom,  and  her 

heart 
Would  rock  the   snowy  cradle  till  I 

died. 


"Why   lingereth  she   to  clothe  her- 

heart  with  love. 
Delaying  as  the  tender  ash  delays 
To  clothe  herself,  when  all  the  woods 

are  green? 

"  O  tell  her,  Swallow,  that  thy  brood 

is  iiown  : 
Say  to  her,  I  do  but  wanton  in  the 

South 
But  in  the  North  long  since  my  nest  is 

made. 

**  O  tell  her,  brief  is  life,  but  love  is 

long. 
And  brief  the  sun  of  summer  in  the 

North, 
And  brief  the  moon  of  beauty  in  the 

South. 

•'  O  Swallow,  flying  from  the  golden 

woods, 
Fly  to  her,  and  pipe  and  woo  her,  and 

make  her  mine, 
And  tell  her,  tell  her,  that  I  follow 

thee." 

I  ceased,  and  all  the  ladies,  each  at 

each, 
Like  the   Ithacensian  suitors   in    old 

time, 
Stared  with  great  eyes,  and  laugh'd 

with  alien  lips, 
And  knew  not  what  they  meant;  for 

still  my  voice 
Rang  false:    but    smiling,   "Not  for 

thee,"  she  said, 
"  O  Bulbul,  any  rose  of  Gulistan 
Shall   burst   her    veil  :    marsh-divers, 

rather,  maid, 
Shall  croak  thee  sister,  or  the  meadow- 
crake 
Grate  her  harsh  kindred  in  the  grass: 

and  this 
A  mere  love-poem !     O  for  such,  my 

friend. 
We  hold  them  slight :  they  mind  us  of 

the  time 
When    we    made    bricks    in    Egypt 

Knaves  are  men. 
That  lute  and  flute  fantastic  tenderness, 
And  dress  the  victim  to  the  offering  up, 


THE  PRINCESS. 


14-5 


Ar.d  paint  the  gates  of  Hell  with  Para- 
dise, 

And  play  the  slave  to  gain  the  tyranny. 

Poor  soul !  I  had  a  maid  of  honor 
once  ; 

She  wept  her  true  eyes  blind  for  such 
a  one, 

A  rogue  of  canzonets  and  serenades. 

I  loved  her.  Peace  be  with  her.  She 
is  dead. 

So  they  blaspheme  the  muse !  but 
great  is  song 

Used  to  great  ends :  ourself  have  often 
tried 

Valkyriau  hymns,  or  into  rhythm  have 
dash'd  • 

The  passion  of  the  prophetess;  for 
song 

Is  duer  unto  freedom,  force  and  growth 

Of  spirit,  than  to  junketing  and  love. 

Love  is  it  ?  Would  this  same  mock- 
love,  and  this  bats. 

Mock-Hymen  were  laid  up  like  winter 

Till  all  men  grew  to  rate  us  at  our 
worth, 

Not  vassals  to  be  beat,  nor^^retty  babes 

To  be  dandled,  no,  but  living  wills,  and 
sphered 

Whole  in  ourselves  and  owed  to  none. 
Enough  ! 

But  now  to  leaven  play  with  profit,  you, 

Know  you  no  song,  the  true  growth  of 
your  soil. 

That  gives  the  manners  of  your  coun- 
trywomen .'"' 

She  spoke  and  turn'd  her  sumptuous 
head  with  eyes 

Of  shining  expectation  fixt  on  mine. 

Then  while  I  dragg'd  my  brains  for 
such  a  song, 

Cyril,  with  whom  the  bell-mouth'd  flask 
had  wrought. 

Or  master'd  by  the  sense  of  sport, 
began 

To  troll  a  careless,  careless  tavern- 
catch 

Of  Moll  and  Meg,  and  strange  experi- 
ences 

Unmeet  for  ladies.  Florian  nodded 
at  him. 


I  frowning ;  Psyche  flush'd  and  vvann'd 
and  shook ; 

The  lilylike  Melissa  droop'd  her  brows ; 

"  Forbear,"  the  Princess  cried  ;  "  For- 
bear, Sir,"  I  ; 

And  heated  thro'  and  thro'  with  wrath 
and  love, 

I  smote  him  on  the  breast;  he  started 
up; 

There    rose    a    shriek    as    of    a   city 
sack'd ; 

Melissa  clamor'd,  *'  Flee  the  death  ; " 
"To  horse," 

Said   Ida;    "home!    to   horse!"   and 
fled,  as  flies 

A  troop  of  snowy  doves  athwart  the 
dusk, 

When  some  one  batters  at  the  dove- 
cote-doors, 

Disorderly  the  women.     Alone  I  stood 

With  Florian,  cursing  Cyril,  vexed  at 
heart, 

In   the    pavilion:    there   like    parting 
hopes 

I  heard  them  passing  from  me  :  hoof 

by  hoof, 
.And  every  hoof  a  knell  to  my  desires, 

Clang'd  on  the   bridge ;  and  then  an- 
other shriek, 

"  The  Head,  the  Head,  the  Princess, 
O  the  Head !  " 

For   blind  with   rage   she   miss'd  the 
plank,  and  roll'd 

In  the  river.     Out  I  sprang  from  glow 
to  gloom ; 

There  whirl'd  her  white  robe  like  a 
blossom'd  branch 

Rapt  to  the  horrible  fall ;  a  glance  I 
gave. 

No  more ;  but  woman-vested  as  I  was 

Plunged;    and  the  flood  drew;   yet  I 
caught  her ;  then 

Oaring  one  arm,  and  bearing  in  my  left 

The  weight  of  all  the  hopes  of  half  the 
world, 

Strove  to  buffet  to  land  in  vain.     A 
tree 

Was  half-disrooted  from  his  place  and 
stoop'd 

To  drench  his  dark  locks   in  the  gur- 
gling wave 


14^ 


THE  PRINCESS. 


Mid-channel.     Right  on  this  we  drove 

and  caught, 
And    grasping    down   the    boughs    I 

gain'd  the  shore. 

There  stood  her  maidens  glimmer- 

ingly  group'd 
fn  the    hollow   bank.      One   reaching 

forward  drew 
My  burthen  from  mine   arms ;    they 

cried,  "  She  lives !  " 
They  bore  her  back  into  the   tent; 

but  I, 
So  much  a  kind  of  shame  within  me 

wrought, 
Not  yet  endured  to  meet  her  opening 

eyes, 
Nor    found   my   friends;    but   push'd 

alone  on  foot 
(For  since  her  horse  was  lost  I  left  her 

mine) 
Across  the  woods,  and  less  from  Indian 

craft 
Than  beelike  instinct  hiveward,  found 

at  length 
The  garden  portals.     Two  great  stat- 
ues, Art 
And  Science,  Caryatids,  lifted  up 
A  weight  of  emblem,  and  betwixt  were 

valves 
Of    open-work  in  which  the    hunter 

rued 
His  rash  intrusion,  manlike,  but  his 

brows 
Had  sprouted,  and  the  branches  there- 
upon 
Spread  out  at  top,  and  grimly  spiked 

the  gates. 

A  little  space  was  left  between  the 

horns, 
Thro'  which  I  clamber'd  o'er  at  top 

with  pain, 
Diopt  on  the  sward,  and  up  the  linden 

walks, 
\nd,   tost   on   thoughts   that  changed 

from  hue  to  hue, 
Now  poring  on  the   glow-worm,  now 

the  star, 
I  paced  the  terrace  till  the  bear  had 

wheel'd 
/Ihro'  a  great  arc  his  seven  slow  suns. 


A    step 
Of  lightest  echo,  then  a  loftier  form 
Than  female,  moving  thro'  the  uncer- 
tain gloom, 
Disturb'd  me  with  the  doubt  "if  this 

were  she," 
But  It  was  Florian.     "  Hist,  O  hist," 

he  said, 
"  They  seek  us :  out  so  late  is  out  of 

rules. 
Moreover  '  Seize  the  strangers '  is  the 

cry. 
How  came  you  here  "i  "   I   told   him : 

"  I,"  said  he, 
"  Last  of  the  train,  a  moral  leper,  I 
To  whom  none    spake,   half-sick    at 

heart,  return'd. 
Arriving  all  confused  among  the  rest 
With  hooded  brows  I   crept  into  the 

hall. 
And,  couch'd  behind  a  Judith,  under- 
neath [saw, 
The  head  of  Holofernes  peep'd  and 
Girl  after  girl  was  call'd  to  trial  i  each 
Disclaim'd  all  knowledge  of  us ;  last  of 

all,      ^,. 
Melissa  :  trust  me.  Sir,  I  pitied  her. 
She,  question'd  if  she  knew  us  men,  at 

first 
Was  silent ;  closer  prest,  denied  it  not 
And  then,  demanded  if  her    mother 

knew, 
Or  Psyche,  she  affirm'd  not,  or  denied  : 
From  whence  the  Royal  mind,  familiar 

with  her. 
Easily  gather'd  either  guilt.     She  sent 
For  Psyche,  but  she  was  not  there ; 

she  call'd 
For  Pysche's  child  to  cast  it  from  the 

doors ; 
She   sent  for  Blanche   to  accuse   her 

face  to  face ;  [now  .-* 

And  I  slipt  out :  but  whither  will  you 
And  where   are   Psyche,   Cyril }  both 

are  fled : 
What,  if  together .?  that  were   not   so 

welL 
Would  rather  we  had  never  come  1  I 

dread 
His  wildness,  and  the  cha-nces  of  the 

dark." 


THE  PRINCESS. 


147 


"  And  yet,"  I  said,  "  you  wrong  him 

more  than  I 
That  struck  him :  this  is  proper  to  the 

clown, 
Tho'  smock'd,  or  furr'd  and  purpled, 

still  the  clown, 
To  harm  the  thing  that  trusts  him,  and 

to  shame 
That  which  he  says  he  loves  ;  for  Cyril, 

howe'er 
He   deal  in  frolic,   as  to-night  —  the 

song 
Might  have  been  worse  and  sinn'd  in 

grosser  lips 
Beyond  all  pardon — as  it  is,  I  hold 
These  flashes  on  the  surface  are  not  he. 
He  has  a  solid  base  of  temperament  : 
But  as  the  water-lily  starts  and  slides 
Upon  the  level  in  little  puffs  of  wind, 
Tho'  anchor'd  to  the  bottom,  such  is 

he." 

Scarce   had  I  ceased  when  from  a 

tamarisk  near 
Two  Proctors  leapt  upon  us,  crying, 

•'  Names." 
He,  standing  still,  was  clutch'd ;  but  I 

began 
To  thrid  the  musky-circled  mazes,  wind 
And  double  in  and  out  the  boles,  and 

race 
By  all  the  fountains  :  fleet  I  was  of 

foot : 
Before  me  shower'd  the  rose  in  flakes ; 

behind 
I  heard  the  puff'd  pursuer ;  at  mine  ear 
Bubbled  the  nightingale  and  heeded 

not, 
And    secret  laughter  tickled  all  my 

soul. 
At  last  I  hook'd  my  ankle  in  a  vine, 
That  claspt  the  feet  of  a  Mnemosyne, 
And  falling  on  my  face  was  caught  and 

known. 

They  haled  us  to  the  Princess  where 
she  sat 
High  in  the  hall :  above  her  droop'd 

a  lamp, 
And  made  the  single  jewel  on  her  brow 
Burn  like  the  mystic  fire  on  a  mast- 
head. 


Prophet  of  storm :    a  hand-maid  on 

each  side 
Bow'd  toward  her,  combing  out  her 

long  black  hair 
Damp  from  the  river;   and  close  be- 
hind her  stood 
Eight  daughters  of  the  plough,  stronger 

than  men. 
Huge  women  blowzed  with  health,  and 

wind,  and  rain. 
And  labor.     Each  was  like  a  Druid 

rock; 
Or  like  a  spire   of  land   that  stands 

apart 
Cleft  from  the  main,  and  wail'd  about 

with  mews. 

Then,  as  we  came,  the  crowd  divid- 
ing clove 

An  advent  to  the  throne ;  and  there- 
beside. 

Half-naked,  as  if  caught  at  once  from 
bed 

And  tumbled  on  the  purple  footcloth, 
lay 

The  lily-shining  child ;  and  on  the  left, 

Bow'd  on  her  palms  and  folded  up 
from  wrong, 

Her  round  white  shoulder  shaken  with 
her  sobs, 

Melissa  knelt;  but 'Lady  Blanche  erect 

Stood  up  and  spake,  an  affluent  orator. 

"  It  was  not  thus,  O  Princess,  in  old 
days: 

You  prized  my  counsel,  lived  upon  my 
lips: 

I  led  you  then  to  all  the  Castalies; 

I  fed  you  with  the  milk  of  every  Muse  j 

I  loved  you  like  this  kneeler,  and  you 
me 

Your  second  mother  :  those  were  gra- 
cious times. 

Then  came  your  new  friend:  you  be- 
gan to  change — 

I  saw  it  and  grieved — to  slacken  and 
to  cool ; 

Till  taken  with  her  seeming  openness 

You  turned  your  warmer  currents  all 
to  her. 

To  me  you  froze:  this  was  my  meed 
for  all. 


148 


THE  PRINCESS. 


Yet  I  bore  up   in  part  from  ancient 

love, 
And  partly  that  I  hoped  to  win  you 

back, 
And  partly  conscious  of  my  own  de- 
serts, [head, 
And  partly  that  you  were  my  civil 
And  chiefly  you  were  born  for  some- 
thing great, 
In  which  I  might  your  fellow-worker 

be, 
When  time  should  serve  j  and  thus  a 

noble  scheme 
Grew  up  from  seed  we  too  long  since 

had  sown; 
In  us   true  growth,  in  her  a  Jonah's 

gourd. 
Up  in  one  night  and  due  to  sudden 

sun: 
We  took  this  palace;  but  even  from 

the  first 
You  stood  in  your  own  light  and  dark- 

en'd  mine. 
What  student  came  but  that  you  planed 

her  path 
To  Lady  Psyche,  younger,  not  so  wise, 
A  foreigner,  and  I  your  countrywoman, 
I  your  old  friend  and  tried,  she  new  in 

all? 
But  still  her  lists  were  swell'd  and  mine 

were  lean; 
Yet  I  bore  up  in  hope  she  would  be 

known  : 
Then  came   these  wolves:  they  knew 

her ;  they  endured, 
Long-closeted  with  her  the  yester-morn, 
To  tell  her  what  they  were,  and  she  to 

hear  : 
And  me  none  told :  not  less  to  an  eye 

like  mine, 
A  lidless  watcher  of  the  public  weal. 
Last  night,  their  mask  was  patent,  and 

my  foot 
Was  to  you:  but  I  thought  again:  I 

fear'd 
To  meet  a  cold  '  We  thank  you,  we 

shall  hear  of  it 
i^'rom  Lady  Psyche  : '  you  had  gone  to 

her, 
She  told,  perforce ;  and  winning  easy 

grace, 


No  doubt,  for  slight  delay,  remain'4 

among  us 
In  our  young  nursery  still  unknown, 

the  stem 
Less  grain  than  touchwood,  while  my 

honest  heat 
Were    all    miscounted    as    malignant 

haste 
To  push  my  rival  out  of  place   and 

power. 
But  public  use  required  she  should  be 

known ; 
And  since  my  oath  was  ta'en  for  pub- 
lic use, 
I  broke  the  letter  of  it  to  keep  the 

sense. 
I  spoke  not  then  at  first,  but  watch'd 

them  well. 
Saw  that  they  kept  apart,  no  mischief 

done ; 
And  yet  this  day  (tho'  you  should  hate 

me  for  it) 
I  came  to  tell  you :  found  that  you  had 

gone, 
Ridd'n  to  the  hills,  she  likewise :  now, 

I  thought, 
That  surely  she  will  speak;  if  not, 

then  I : 

Did  she  ?      These  monsters  blazon'd 

what  they  were, 
According  to  the  coarseness  of  their 

kind. 
For  thus  I  hear;  and   known   at  last 

(my  work) 
And  full  of  cowardice  and  guilty  shame, 
I  grant  in  her  some  sense  of  shame. 

she  flies; 
And  I  remain  on  whom  to  wreak  your 

rage, 
I,  that  have  lent  my  life  to  build  up 

yours, 
I  that  have  wasted  here  health,  wealth, 

and  time. 
And   talents,  I — you  know  it — I  will 

not  boast: 
Dismiss  me,  and  I  prophesy  your  plan, 
Divorced  from  my  experience^  will  be 

chaff 
For  every  gust  of  chance,  and  men  wiH 

say   . 


THE  PRINCESS. 


H9 


We  did  not  know  the  real  light,  but 

chased 
The  wisp  that  flickers  where  no  foot 

can  tread." 

She  ceased:  the  Princess  answer'd 
coldly  "  Good  : 
Your  oath  is  broken :  we  dismiss  you  : 

go- 
For  this  lost  lamb  (she  pointed  to  the 

child) 
Our  mind  is  changed  :  we  take  it  to 

ourself." 

Thereat  the  Lady  stretch'd  a  vulture 
throat, 

And  shot  from  crooked  lips  a  haggard 
smile. 

""The    plan   was    mine.      I   built   the 
nest,"  she  said, 

"  To  hatch  the  cuckoo.     Rise  ! "  and 
stoop'd  to  updrag 

Melissa :  she,  half  on  her  mother  propt, 

Half   drooping   from   her,   turn'd  her 

face,  and  cast 
•A  liquid  look  on  Ida,  full  of  prayer, 

Which  melted  Florian's  fancy  as  she 
hung, 

A  Niobean  daughter,  one  arm  out, 

Appealing  to  the  bolts  of  Heaven ;  and 
while 

We  gazed  upon  her  came  a  little  stir 

About    the    doors,  and  on  a  sudden 
rush'd 

Among  us,  out  of  breath,  as  one  pur- 
sued, 

A  woman-post  in  flying  raiment.     Fear 

Stared  in  her  eyes,   and   chalk'd   her 
face,  and  wing'd 

Her  transit  to  the  throne,  whereby  she 
fell 

Delivering  seal'd  despatches  which  the 
Head 

Took   half-amazed,  and   in  her   lion's 
mood 

Tore  open,  silent  we  with  blind  sur- 
mise 

Regarding,   while   she   read,   till  over 
brow 

And  cheek  and  bosom  brake  the  wrath- 
ful bloom 

As  of  some  fire  against  a  stormy  cloud 


When  the  wild  peasant  rights  himself, 

the  rick 
Flames,  and  his  anger  reddens  in   the 

heavens ; 
For  anger  most  it  seem'd,  while  now 

her  breast. 
Beaten  with  some  great  passion  at  her 

heart. 
Palpitated,   her  hand  shook,  and  we 

heard 
In  the  dead  hush  the  papers  that  she 

held 
Rustle :  at  once  the  lost  lamb  at  her 

feet 
Sent  out  a  bitter  bleating  for  its  dam  ; 
The  plaintive  cry  jarr'd  on  her  ire ;  she 

crush'd 
The  scrolls  together,  made  a  sudden 

turn 
As  if  "h)  speak,  but,  utterance  failing 

her. 
She  whirl'd  them  on  to  me,  as  who 

should  say, 
"  Read,"  and  I  read — two  letters — one 

her  sire's. 

"Fair  daughter,  when  we  sent  the 

Prince  your  way 
We  knew  not  your  ungracious  laws, 

which  learnt. 
We,  conscious  of  what  temper  you  are 

built. 
Came  all  in  haste  to  hinder  wrong,  but 

fell 
Into  his  father's  hands,  who  has  this 

night. 
You  lying  close  upon  his  territory, 
Slipt  round  and  in  the  dark  invested 

you. 
And  here  he  keeps  me  hostage  for  his 

son." 

The  second  was  my  father's,  running 

thus : 
"  You  have  our  son :  touch  not  a  hair 

of  his  head : 
Render  him  up  unscathed :  give  him 

your  hand : 
Cleave  to  your  contract:  tho'  indeed 

we  hear 
You  hold   the  woman  is   the  better 

man; 


*5o 


THE  PRINCESS. 


A  rampant  heresy,  such  as  if  it  spread 

Would  make  all  women  kick  against 
their  lords 

Thro'  all  the  world,  and  which  might 
well  deserve 

That  we  this  night  should  pluck  your 
palace  down ; 

And  we  will  do  it,  unless  you  send  us 
back 

Our  son,  on  the  instant,  whole." 

So  far  I  read  ; 

And  then  stood  up  and  spoke  impetu- 
ously. 

"  O  not  to  pry  and  peer  on  your  re- 
serve, 
But  led  by  golden  wishes,  and  a  hope 
The  child   of    regal   compact,   did   I 

break  ^ 

Your  precinct ;  not  a  scorner  of  your 

sex 
But  venerator,  zealous  it  should  be 
All  that  it  might  be ;  hear  me,  for  I 

bear, 
Tho'  man,  yet  human,  whatsoe'er  your 

wrongs. 
From  the  flaxen  curl  to  the  gray  lock  a 

life 
Less  mine  than  yours  :  my  nurse  would 

tell  me  of  you ; 
I  babbled  for  you,  as  babies  for  the 

moon, 
Vague   brightness;   when  a  boy,  you 

stoop'd  to  me 
From  all  high  places,  lived  in  all  fair 

lights. 
Came  in  long  breezes  rapt  from  inmost 

south 
And  blown  to  inmost  north;   at  eve 

and  dawn 
With  Ida,  Ida,  Ida,  rang  the  woods ; 
The  leader  wild-swan  in  among  the 

stars 
Would  clang  it,  and  lapt  in  wreaths  of 

glow-worn  light 
The   mellow  breaker  murmur'd   Ida. 

Now, 
Because  I  would  have  reach'd  you,  had 

you  been 
Sphered  up  with  Cassiopeia,  or  the  en- 
throned 


Peresphone    in  Hades,  now  at  length, 

Those  winters  of  abeyance  all  worn 
out, 

A  man  I  came  to  see  you:  but,  in- 
deed, 

Not  in  this  frequence  can  I  lend  full 
tongue, 

0  noble  Ida,  to  those  thoughts  that 

wait 
On  you,  their  centre :  let  me  say  but 

this. 
That  many  a  famous  man  and  woman, 

town 
And  landskip,  have  I  heard  of,  after 

seen 
The  dwarfs   of  prestage ;    tho'  when 

known,  there  grew 
Another  kind  of  beauty  in  detail 
Made  them  worth  knowing ;  but  in  you 

I  found 
My  boyish  dream  involved  and  dazzled 

down 
And  master'd,  while  that  after-beauty 

makes 
Such  head  from  act  to  act,  from  houF 

to  hour, 
Within  me,  that  except  you  slay  me 

here, 
According  to  your  bitter  statute  book, 

1  cannot  cease  to  follow  you,  as  they 

say 
The  seal  does  music;  who  desire  you 

more 
Than  growing  boys  their  manhood ; 

dying  lips. 
With  many  thousand  matters  left  to 

do. 
The  breath  of  life  ;  O  more  than  poor 

men  wealth, 
Than  sick  men  health, — yours,  yours, 

not  mine, — but  half 
Without  you,  with  you,  whole  ;  and  of 

those  halves 
You  worthiest;  and  howe'er  you  block 

and  bar 
Your  heart  with  system  out  from  mine, 

I  hold 
That  it  becomes  no  man  to  nurse  de- 
spair. 
But  in  the  teeth  of  clench'd  antagoiy 

isms 


THE  PRINCESS. 


151 


To  follow  up  the  worthiest  till  he  die  : 
Yet  that  I  came  not  all  unauthorized 
Behold  your  father's  letter." 

On  one  knee 
Kneeling,  I  gave  it,  which  she  caught, 

and  dash'd 
Unopen'd  at  her  feet :  a  tide  of  fierce 
Invective  seem'd  to  wait  behind  her 

lips, 
As  waits  a  river  level  with  the  dam 
Ready  to  burst  and   flood   the  world 

with  foam  ; 
And  so  she  would  have  spoken,  but 

there  rose 
A    hubbub   in   the   court   of   half   the 

maids  [hall 

Gather'd  together  :  from  the  illumined 
Long  lanes  of  splendor  slanted  o'er  a 

press 
Of  snowy  shoulders,  thiclc  as  herded 

ewes. 
And   rainbow   robes,   and  gems    and 

gem-like  eyes. 
And  gold  and  golden  heads;   they  to 

and  fro 
Fluctuated,  as  flowers  irr  storm,  some 

red,  some  pale, 
All   open-mouth'd,   all  gazing  to   the 

light, 
^ome  crying  there  was  an  army  in  the 

land, 
And  some  that  men  were  in  the  very 

walls, 
And  some  they  cared  not ;  till  a  clamor 

grew 
As  of  a  new-world  Babel,  woman-built. 
And  worse    confounded  :  high  above 

them  stood 
The   placid    marble    Muses,    looking 

peace. 

Not  peace  she  look'd,  the  Head  :  but 

rising  up 
Robed  in  the  long  night  of  her  deep 

hair,  so 
To  the  open  window  moved,  remaining 

there 
Fixt  like    a  beacon-tower    above   the 

waves 
Of  tempest,  when  the  crimson-rolling 

eye 


Glares  ruin,  and  the  wild  birds  on  the 

light 
Dash  themselves  dead.     She  stretch'd 

her  arms  and  call'd 
Across  the  tumult  and  the  tumult  fell. 

"  What  fear  ye  brawlers  }  am  not  I 

your  Head  .'' 
On  me,  me,  me,  the  storm  first  breaks  : 

/  dare 
All  these  male  thunderbolts  :  what    is 

it  ye  fear .'' 
Peace !  there  are  those  to  avenge   us 

and  they  come : 
If  not, — myself   were  like  enough,  O 

girls, 
To  unfurl   the  maiden  banner  of  our 

rights, 
And  clad  in  iron  burst  the  ranks  of 

war, 
Or,  falling,  protomartyr  of  our  cause. 
Die  :  yet  I  blame  ye  not  so  much  for 

fear; 
Six  thousand  years  of  fear  have  made 

ye  that 
From  which  I  would  redeem  ye  :  but 

for  those 
That  stir  this  hubbub — you  and  you — 

I  know 
Your  faces  there  in  the  crowd — to  mor- 
row morn  [they 
We  hold  a  great  convention  :  then  shall 
That  love  their  voices  more  than  duty, 

learn 
With   whom    they  deal,   dismiss'd    in 

shame  to  live 
No  wiser  than  their  mothers,  household 

stuff, 
Live  chattels,  mincers  of  each  other's 

fame, 
Full  of  weak  poison,  turnspits  for  the 

clown, 
The     drunkard's    football,    laughing- 
stocks  of  Time, 
Whose  brains  are  in  their  hands  and  in 

their  heels, 
But  fit  to  flaunt,  to  dress,  to  dance,  to 

thrum, 
To  tramp,  to  scream,  to  burnish,  an(^ 

to  scour, 
Forever    slaves    at    home    and    fools 

abroad." 


^52 


THE  PRINCESS. 


She,     ending,     v^raved     her    hands  ; 

thereat  the  crowd 
Muttering  dissolved  :  then  with  a  smile, 

that  look'd 
A.  stroke  of  cruel  sunshine  on  the  cliff. 
When  all   the   glens   are    drown'd   in 

azure  gloom 
Of  thunder-shower,  she  floated  to  us 

and  said  : 

"  You   have   done  well   and  like  a 

gentleman, 
And  like  a  prince :  you  have  our  thanks 

for  all : 
And  you  look  well  too  in  your  woman's 

dress  : 
Well  have  you  done  and  like  a  gentle- 
man. 
You  saved  our  life  :  we  owe  you  bitter 

thanks : 
Better  have  died  and  spilt  our  bones  in 

the  flood — 
Then  men  had  said — but  now — What 

hinders  me 
To  take  such  bloody  vengeance  on  you 

both  ?— 
Yet  since  our  father — Wasps  in  our 

good  hive, 
You  would  be  quenchers  of  the  light 

to  be. 
Barbarians,  grosser  than  your  native 

bears — 

0  would  I  had  his  sceptre  for  one  hour  ! 
You   that   have   dared  to    break    our 

bound,  and  gull'd 

Our  servants,  wrong'd  and  lied  and 
thwarted  us — 

/  wed  with  thee  !  /  bound  by  precon- 
tract 

Your  bride,  your  bondslave  !  not  tho' 
all  the  gold 

That  veins  the  world  were  pack'd  to 
make  your  crown. 

And  every  spoken  tongue  should  lord 
you.     Sir, 

Your  falsehood  and  you"self  are  hate- 
ful to  us ; 

1  trample  on  your  offers  and  on  you  : 
Begone :  we  will   not  look  upon  you 

more. 
Here,  push  them  out  at  gates." 


In  wrath  she  spake. 
Then  those  eight  mighty  daughters  of 

the  plough 
Bent  their  broad  faces  toward  us  and 

address'd 
Their  motion  :   twice  I  sought  to  plead 

my  cause, 
But  on  my  shoulder  hung  their  heavy 

hands. 
The  weight  of  destiny :  so  from    her 

face 
They   push'd   us,  down  the  steps,  and 

thro'  the  court. 
And  with  grim   laughter  thrust  us  out 

at  gates. 

We  cross'd  the  street  and  gain'd  a 

petty  mound 
Beyond  it,  whence  we  saw  the  lights 

and  heard 
The     voices    murmuring.      While     I 

listen'd,  came 
On  a  sudden  the  weird  seizure  and  the 

doubt  : 
I  seem'd  to  move  among  a  world  of 

ghosts  : 
The    Princess    with    her    monstrous 

woman-guard, 
The  jest  and  earnest  working  side  by 

side, 
The  cataract  and  the  tumult  and  the 

kings 
Were  shadows ;  and  the  long  fantastic 

night 
With  all  its  doings  had  and  had  not 

been, 
And  all  things  were  and  were  not. 

This  went  by 
As  strangely  as  it  came,  and  on  my 

spirits 
Settled  a  gentle  cloud  of  melancholy; 
Not  long  ;  I  shook  it  off ;  for  spite  of 

doubts 
And  sudden  ghostly  shadowings  I  was 

one 
To  whom  the  touch  of  all  mischance 

but  came 
As  night  to  him  that  sitting  on  a  hill 
Sees  the  midsummer,  midnight,  Nor- 
way sun 
Set  into  sunrise :  then  we  moved  away. 


THE  PRINCESS. 


^53 


Thy  voice  is  heard  thro'  rolling  drums, 
That  beat  to  battle  where  he  stands  ; 
Thy  face  across  his  fancy  comes, 

And  gives  the  battle  to  his  hands  : 
A  moment,  while  the  trumpets  blow, 
lie  sees  his  brood  about  thy  knee  ; 
The  next,  like  fire  he  meets  the  foe. 
And  strikes  him  dead  for  thine  and 

theer 
So   Lilia   sang:  we   thought  her  half- 

possess'd, 
She  struck  such  warbling  fury  thro' 

the  words  ; 
And,  after  feigning  pique  at  what  she 

call'd 

The  raillery,  or  grotesque,  or  false  sub- 
lime— 
Like  one   that  wishes  at  a  dance  to 

change 
The  music — clapt  her  hands  and  cried 

for  war, 
Or  some  grand  fight  to  kill   and  make 

an  end : 
And  he  that  next  inherited  the  tale 
Half  turning  to  the  broken  statue  said, 
"  Sir  Ralph  has  got  your  colors  ;  if  I 

prove 
Vour  knight,  and  fight  your  battle,  what 

for  me  ? "  '  [tomb 

[t  chanced,  her  empty  glove    upon  the 
Lay  by  her  like  a  model  of  her  hand. 
She  took  it  and  she  flung  it.     "  Fight," 

she  said, 
"  And  make  us  all  we  would  be,  great 

and  good." 
He   knightlike  in  his  cap  instead   of 

casque, 
A  cap  of  Tyrol  borrow'd  from  the  hall, 
Arranged  the  favor,  and  assumed  the 

Prince. 

V. 

Now,  scarce    three   paces    measured 

from  the  mound, 
\Ve  stumbled  on  a  stationary  voice, 
And  "  Stand,  who  goes  ?  "  "  Two  from 

the  palace,"  I. 
"  The  second  two  :  they  wait,"  he  said, 

"pass  on  ; 
His  Highness  wakes  "  :  and  one,  that 

clash'd  in  arms, 


By  glimmering  lanes  the  walls  of  can. 

vas,  led 
Threading  the  soldier-city,  till  we  heard 
The  drowsy  folds  of  our  great   ensign 

shake 
From  blazon'd  lions  o'er  the  imperial 

tent 
Whispers  of  war. 

Entering,  the  sudden  light 
Dazed     me     half-blind :  I   stood   and 

seem'd  to  hear 
As  in  a  poplar  grove  when  alight  wind 

wakes 
i  A  lisping  of  the  innumerous  leaf  and 
j  dies, 

Each   hissing  in  his  neighbor's  ear-, 

and  then 
j  A  strangled  titter,  out  of  which  there 
I  brake 

On  all   sides,  clamoring  etiquette   to 

death. 
Unmeasured  mirth ;  while  now  the  two 

old  kings 
Began  to  wag  their  baldness  up  and 

down, 
The  fresh  young  captains  flash'd  their 

glittering  teeth. 
The  huge  bush-bearded  Barons  heaved 

and  blew. 
And  slain  with  laughter  roll'd  the  gilded 

Squire. 
At  length  my  Sire,  his  rough  cheek 

wet  with  tears, 
Panted  from  weary  sides,  "  King,  you 

are  free  ! 
We  did  but  keep  you  surety  for  our 

son. 
If  this  be  he, — or  a  draggled  mawkin, 

thou. 
That  tends  her  bristled  grunters  in  the 

sludge  :  " 
For  I  was  drench'd  with  ooze,  and  torn 

with  briers. 
More  crumpled  than  a  poppy  from  the 

sheath. 
And  all  one  rag,  disprinced  from  head 

to  heel. 
Then  some  one  sent  beneath  his  vaulted 

palm 
A  whisper'd  jest  to  some  one  near  him 

"  Look, 


154 


THE  PRINCESS. 


lie    has   been    among   his    shadows." 

"  Satan  take 
The   old  women   and  their  shadows  ! 

(thus  the  King 
Roar'd)  make  yourself  a  man  to  fight 

with  men. 
Go  :  Cyril  told  us  all." 

At  boys  that  slink 
From  ferule  and  the  trespass-chiding 

eye, 
Away  we  stole,  and  transient  in  a  trice 
From  what  was  left  of  faded  woman - 

slough 
To  sheathing  splendors  and  the  golden 

scale 
Of    harness,  issued    in  the  sun,   that 

now 
Leapt  from  the  dewy  shoulders  of  the 

Earth, 
And    hi^    the    northern    hills.      Here 

Cyril  met  us, 
A  little  shy  at  first,  but  by  and  by 
We  twain,  with  mutual  pardon  ask'd 

and  given 
For  stroke  and  song,  resolder'd  peace, 

whereon 
Follow'd    his   tale.     Amazed   he  fled 

away 
Thro'  the  dark  land,  and  later  in  the 

night 
Had  come  on  Psyche  weeping  :  "  then 

we  fell  [lies, 

Into  your  father's  hand  and  there  she 
But  will  not  speak,  nor  stir." 

He  bhow'd  a  tent 
A.  stone-shot  off :  we  enter'd  in,  and 

there 
Among  piled  arms  and  rough  accoutre- 
ments, 
Pitiful  sight,  wrapt  in  a  soldier's  cloak, 
Like  some  sweet  sculpture  draped  from 

head  to  foot, 
A.nd  push'd  by  rude  hands  from  its 

pedestal, 
All   her  fair  length  upon  the  ground 

she  lay: 
And  at  her  head  a  follower  of  the  camp, 
A    charr'd    and    wrinkled    piece    of 

womanhood, 
Sat   watching  like    a  watcher  by  the 

'dead. 


Then   Florian  knelt,   and   "Come" 

he  whisper'd  to  her, 
"  Lift  up  your  head,  sweet  sister ;  lie 

not  thus 
What   have  you  done  but  right  .-*  you 

could  not  slay 
Me,   nor   your   prince ;   look   up  :    be 

comforted  : 
Sweet  is  it  to  have  done  the  thing  one 

ought. 
When  fall'n  in  darker  ways."      And 

likewise  I  : 
*'  Be  comforted  :  have  I  not  lost  her 

too, 
In  whose  least  act  abides  the  nameless 

charm 
That   none    has   else  for  me  .•* "     She 

heard,  she  moved, 
She  moan'd,  a  folded  voice ;  and   up 

she  sat, 
And  raised  the  cloak  from  brows  as 

pale  and  smooth 
As  those  that  mourn  half  shrouded  over 

death 
In    deathless    marble.     "  Her,"    she 

said,  "  my  friend — 
Parted  from  her — betray'd  her  cause 

and  mine — 
Where  shall  I  breathe  ?  why  kept  ye 

not  your  faith  ? 
O  base  and  bad !  what  comfort  ?  none 

for  me ! " 
To  whom  remorseful    Cyril,  *'  Yet  I 

pray 
Take  comfort :  live,  dear  lady,  for  your 

child!" 
At  which  she  lifted  up  her  voice  and 

cried 
"  Ah  me,  my  babe,  my  blossom,  ah 

my  child. 
My  one  sweet  child,  whom  I  shall  see 

no  more  1 
For  now  wiil  cruel  Ida  keep  her  back; 
And  either  she  will  die  from  want   of 

care, 
Or  sicken  with  ill  usage,  when  they  say 
The  child  is  hers — for  every  little  fault, 
The  child  is  hers ;  and  they  will  beat 

my  girl 
Remembering    her     mother:    O    my 

flower ! 


THE  PRINCESS. 


'55 


Or  they  will  take  her,  they  will  make 

her  hard, 
And  she  will  pass  me  by  in  after-life 
With  some  cold  reverence  worse  than 

were  she  dead. 
Ill  mother  that  I  was  to  leave  her  there, 
To  lag  behind,  scared  by  the  cry  they 

made, 
The  horror  of  the  shame  among  them 

all: 
But  I  will  go  and  sit  beside  the  doors, 
And  make  a  wild  petition  night  and 

day, 
Until  they  hate  to  hear  me  like  a  wind 
Wailing  forever,  till  they  open   to  me. 
And  lay  my  little  blossom  at  my  feet. 
My   babe,  my   sweet   Aglaia,  my  one 

child: 
And  I  will  take  her  up  and  go  my  way, 
{  And  satisfy  my  soul  with  kissing  her  : 
Ah  !  what  might  that  man  not  deserve 

of  me, 
Who  gave  me  back  my  child  ?  "    "  Be 

comforted," 
Said  Cyril,  *'  you  shall   have  it,"  but 

again 
She  veil'd  her  brows,  and  prone  she 

sank,  and  so 
,  Like  tender  things  that  being  caught 

feign  death, 
Spoke  not,  nor  stirr'd. 

By  this  a  murmur  ran 
Thro'  all  the  camp  and  inward  raced 

the  scouts 
W^ith   rumor  of  Prince  Arac  hard   at 

hand. 
We  left  her  by  the  woman,  and  without 
Found  the   gray  kings  at  parle :  and 

"  Look  you,"  cried 
My  father,    "  that  our  compact  be  ful- 

fill'd : 
You  have  spoilt  this  child;  she  laughs 

at  you  and  man  : 
She  wrongs  herself,  her  sex,  and  me, 

and  him  : 
But  red-faced  war  has  rods  of  steel  and 

fire  ; 
She  yields,  or  war." 

Then  Gama  turn'd  to  mc  : 
**  We  fear,  indeed,  you  spent  a  stormy 

time 


With  our  strange  girl :  and  yet  they  say 

that  still 
You    love   her.     Give   us,  then,   your 

mind  at  large : 
How  say  you,  war  or  not  t " 

"  Not  war,  if  possible, 

0  king,"  I  said,  "  lest  from  the  abuse 

of  war, 
The   desecrated  shrine,  the  tramplec^ 

year. 
The  smouldering  homestead,  and  the 

household  flower 
Torn  from  the  lintel — all  the  common 

wrong— 
A  smoke  go  up  thro'  which  I  loom  to 

her 
Three    times    a    monster :    now    she 

lightens  scorn 
At  him  that  mars  her  plan,  but  then 

would  hate 
(And  every  voice  she  talk'd  with  ratify 

it, 
And  every  face  she  look'don  justify  it) 
The  general  foe.     More  soluble  is  this 

knot, 
By  gentleness  than  war      I    want  her 

love. 
What   were  I   nigher  this  altho'  we 

dash'd 
Your  cities  into  shards  with  catapults, 
She  would  not  love ; — or  brought  her 

chain 'd,  a  slave, 
The  lifting  of  whose   eyelash   is  my 

lord, 
Not  ever  would  she  love ;  but  brood- 
ing turn 
The   book  of  scorn  till  all  my  little 

chance 
Were  caught  within  the  record  of  her 

wrongs, 
And  crush'd  to  death  :  and  rather.  Sire, 

than  this 

1  would   the  old  god  of  war  himself 

were  dead, 
Forgotten,  rusting  on  his  iron  hills. 
Rotting  on  some  wild  shore  with  ribs 

of  wreck. 
Or  like  an  old-world  mammoth  bulk'd 

in  ice, 
Not  to  be  molten  out." 

And  roughly  spake. 


156 


THE  PRINCESS. 


My  father,  **  Tut,  you  know  them  not, 

the  girls. 
Boy,  when  I  hear  you  prate  I  almost 

think 
That  idiot  legend  credible.     Look  you, 

Sir! 
Man   is    the    hunter  ;   woman   is  his 

game : 
The  sleek  and  shining  creatures  of  the 

chase. 
We  hunt  them  for  the  beauty  of  their 

skins ; 
They  love  us  for  it,  and  we  ride  them 

down. 
Wheedling    and  siding    with    them! 

Out  I  for  shame ! 
Boy,  there's  no  rose  that's  half  so  dear 

to  them 
As  he  that  does  the  thing  they  dare  not 

do. 
Breathing  and  sounding  beauteous  bat- 
tle, comes 
With  the  air  of  the  trumpet  round  him, 

and  leaps  in 
Among  the  women,  snares  them  by  the 

score 
Fatter'd    and  fluster'd,   wins,  though 

dash'd  with  death 
He  reddens  what  he  kisses  :  thus  I  won 
Your  mother,  a  good  mother,  a  good 

wife. 
Worth  winning  ;  but  this  firebrand — 

gentleness 
To  such  as  her !   if  Cyril  spake  her 

true, 
To  catch  a  dragon  in  a  cherry  net, 
To  trip  a  tiger  with  a  gossamer. 
Were  wisdom  to  it." 

"  Yea,  but  Sire,"  I  cried, 
"  Wild  natures  need  wise  curbs.     The 

soldier  ?   No : 
What  dares  not  Ida  do  that  she  should 

prize 
The  soldier  ?     I  beheld  her,  when  she 

rose 
The     yester-night,    and    storming    in 

extremes 
Stood  for  her  cause,  and  flung  defiance 

down 
Gagelike  to  man,  and  had  not  shunn'd 

the  death, 


No,  not  the  soldier's :  yet  I  hold  her, 

king. 
True  woman :  but  you  clash  them  all 

in  one. 
That  have  as  many  differences  as  we. 
The  violet  varies  from  the  lily  as  far 
As    oak   from    elm;    one    loves    the 

soldier,  one 
The   silken  priest  of  peace,  one  this, 

one  that. 
And   some    unworthily;    their    sinless 

faith, 
A  maiden  moon  that  sparkles  on  a  sty. 
Glorifying   clown  and  satyr;   whence 

they  need 
More  breadth  of  culture :  is  not  Ida 

right  ? 
They  worth  it  1  truer  to  the  law  within  ? 
Severer  in  the  logic  of  a  life  ? 
Twice  as  magnetic  to  sweet  influences 
Of  earth  and  heaven  ?  and  she  of  whom 

you  speak. 
My  mother,  looks  as  whole  as  some 

serene 
Creation  minted  in  the  golden  moods 
Of  sovereign  artists  ;  not  a  thought,  a 

touch, 
But  pure  as  lines  of  green  that  streak 

the  white 
Of  the  first  snowdrop's  inner  leaves ;  I 

say. 
Not  like  the  piebald  miscellany,  man. 
Bursts  of  great  heart  and  slips  in  sen- 
sual mire, 
But  whole  and  one :  and  take  them  all- 
in-all,  [kind. 
Were  we  ourselves  but  half  as  good,  as 
As  truthful,  much  that  Ida  claims  as 

right 
Had  ne'er  been  mooted,  but  as  frankly 

theirs 
As  dues  of  Nature.     To  our   point; 

not  war : 
Lest  I  lose  all." 

"  Nay,  nay,  you  spake  but  sense," 
Said  Gama.    "  We  remember  love  our- 
selves 
In  our  sweet  youth;  we  did  not  rate 

him  then 
This  red-hot  iron  to  be  shaped  with 

blows. 


THE  PRINCESS. 


^57 


Y"ou  talk  almost  like  Ida;  j//<?  can  talk ; 
And  there  is  something  in  it  as  you 

say; 
But  you  talk  kindlier  ;  we  esteem  you 

for  it.— 
He  seems  a  gracious  and  a  gallant 

Prince, 
I  would  he  had  our  daughter ;  for  the 

rest, 
Our  own  detention,  why  the   causes 

weigh'd, 
Fatherly  fears — you   used   us   courte- 
ously— 
We   would  do  much  to  gratify  your 

Prince — 
We   pardon   it;  and  for  your  ingress 

here 
Upon  the  skirt  and  fringe  of  our  fair 

land, 
You    did  but  come  as  goblins  in  the 

night. 

Nor  in  the  furrow  broke  the  plough- 
man's head, 
Nor  burnt  the  grange,  nor  buss'd  the 

mil  king-maid 
Nor  robb'd  the  farmer  of  his  bowl  of 

cream ; 
But  let  our  Prince  (our  royal  word  upon 

it, 
He  comes  back  safe)  ride  with  us  to 

our  lines, 
And  speak  with  Arac ;  Arac's  word  is 

thrice 
As  ours  with  Ida ;  something  may  be 

done — 
I  know  not  what — and  ours  shall  see 

us  friends.  will, 

[You,  likewise,  our  late  guests,  if  so  you 
Follow  us  :  who  knows  ?  we  four  may 

build  some  plan 
Foursquare  to  opposition." 

Here  he  reach'd 
White  hands  of  farewell  to  my  sire, 

who  growl'd 
An  answer  which,  half-muffled  in  his 

beard. 
Let  so  much  out  as  gave  us  leave  to  go. 

Then  rode   we   with   the   old  king 
across  the  lawns 
Beneath  huge  trees,  a  thousand  rings 
of  Spring  ^ 


In  every  hole,  a  song  on  every  spray 
Of  birds  that  piped  their  ValentineSj 

and  woke 
Desire  in  me  to  infuse  my  tale  of  love 
In  the  old  king's  ears,  who  promised 

help,  and  oozed 
All   o'er  with  honey'd   answer   as   we 

rode ;  [dews 

And  blossom-fragrant  slipt  the  heavy 
Gather'd    by   night    and   peace,   with 

each  light  air 
On     our    mail'd     heads ;     but    other 

thoughts  than  Peace 
Burnt  in  us,  when  we  saw  the  embat- 
tled sqares. 
And  squadrons  of  the    Prince,  tram- 
pling the  flowers 
With  clamor :  for  among  them  rose  a 

cry 
As  if  to  greet  the  king ;  they  made  a 

halt; 
The  horses  yell'd ;  they  clash'd  their 

arms ;  the  drum 
Beat ;  merrily-blowing  shrill'd  the  mar- 

tial  fife ; 
And  in  the  blast  and  bray  of  the  long 

horn 
And  serpent-throated  bugle,  undulated 
The  banner :  anon  to  meet  us  lightly 

pranced 
Three  captains  out ;  nor  ever  had   I 

seen 
Such  thews  of  men  ;  the  midmost  and 

the  highest 
Was  Arac  ;  all  about  his  motion  clung 
The  shadow  of  his  sister,  as  the  beam 
Of  the  East,  that  play'd  upon  them, 

made  them  glance 
Like  those    three    stars   of    the  airy- 
Giant's  zone. 
That  glitter  burnish'd  by  the  frosty 

dark; 
And  as  the  fiery  Sirius  alters  hue, 
And  bickers  into  red   and    emerald, 

shone 
Their  morions,  wash'd  with  morning, 

as  they  came. 

And  I  that  prated  peace,  when  first  I 
heard 
War-music,  felt  the  blind  wildbeast  of 
force, 


158 


THE  PRINCESS. 


Whose  home  is  in  the  sinews  of  a  man, 
Stir  in  me  as  to  strike  :  then   took  the 

king 
His  three   broad  sons  :   with  now  a 

wandering  hand 
And  now  a  pointed  finger,  told  them 

all:' 
A  common  light  of  smiles  at  our  dis- 
guise 
Broke  from  their  lips,  and,  ere  the 

windy  jest 
Had   labor'd  down  within  his  ample 

lungs, 
The  genial  giant,  Arac,  roll'd  himself 
Thrice  in  the  saddle,  then  burst  out  in 

words. 

"Our  land  invaded,  'sdeath!  and  he 
himself 

Your  captive,  yet  my  father  wills  not 
war : 

And,  'sdeath !  myself,  what  care  I,  war 
or  no  ? 

But  then  this  question  of  your  troth  re- 
mains : 

And  there's  a  downright  honest  mean- 
ing in  her ; 

She  flies  too  high,  she  flies  too  high  ! 
and  yet 

She  ask'd  but  space  and  fairplay  for 
her  scheme ;  [self. 

She  prest  and  prest  it  on  me — 1  my- 

What  know  I  of  these  things  ?  but,  life 
and  soul  ! 

I  thought  her  half- right  talking  of  her 
wrongs : 

I  say  she  flies  too  high,  'sdeath !  what 
of  that  ? 

I  take  her  for  the  flower  of  womankind. 

And  so  I  often  told  her,  right  or  wrong. 

And,  Prince,  she  can  be  sweet  to  those 
she  loves. 

And,  right  or  wrong,  I  care  not :  this 
is  all, 

I  stand  upon  her  side :  she  made  me 
swear  it — 

'Sdeath, — and  with  solemn  rites  by  can- 
dle-light- 
Swear  by  St.  something— I  forget  her 
name — 

Her  that  talk'd  down  the  fifty  wisest 
men  : 


She  was  a  princess  too ;  and  so  I  swore. 
Come,  this  is  all ;  she  will  not :  waive 

your  claim, 
If  not,  the  foughten  field,  what  else,  at 

once 
Decides  it,  'sdeath  I  against  my  father's 

will." 

I  lagg'd  in  answer  loath  to  render 

up 
My  precontract,  and  loath  by  brainless 

war 
To  cleave  the  rift  of  difference  deeper 

yet; 
Till   one  of  those  two  brothers,  half 

aside 
And  fingering  at  the  hair  about  his 

lip, 
To  prick  us  on  to  combat  "Like  to 

like  I 
The  woman's  garment  hid  the  woman's 

heart." 
A  taunt  that  clench'd  his  purpose  like 

a  blow  1 

For    fiery-short    was  Cyril's  counter- 
scoff. 
And  sharp  I  answer'd  touch'd  upon 

the  point 
Where  idle  boys  are  cowards  to  their 

shame, 
"  Decide  it  here :    why  not  ?    we  are 

three  to  three." 

Then  spake  the  third,  "  But  three  to 

three  .'*  no  more  ! 
No  more,   and  in  our  noble  sister's 

cause  ."* 
More,  more,  for  honor :  every  captain 

waits 
Hungry  for  honor,  angry  for  his  king. 
More,  more,  some  fifty  on  a  side,  that 

each 
May  breathe  himself,  and  quick  !  by 

overthrow 
Of  these  or  those,  the  question  settled 

die." 

"Yea,"  answer'd  I,   "for  this  wild 

wreath  of  air, 
This  flake   of  rainbow  flying  on  the 

highest 
Foam  of  men's  deeds     this  honor,  if  ye 

will. 


THE  PRINCESS. 


59 


If  needs  must  be  for  honor  if  at  all : 
Since,  what  decision  ?    if  we  fail,  we 

fail, 
And  if  we  win,  we  fail  :  she  would  not 

keep 
Her  compact.''  "'Sdeath!  but  we  will 

send  to  her," 
Said  Arac,  "  worthy  reasons  why  she 

should 
Bide  by  this  issue:    let  our  missive 

thro'. 
And  you  shall  have  her  answer  by  the 

word." 

"  Boys  !  "  shriek'd  the  old  king,  but 

vainlier  than  a  hen 
To  her  false  daughters  in  the  pool ;  for 

none 
Regarded ;  neither  seem'd  there  more 

to  say : 
Back  rode  we  to  my  father's  camp,  and 

found 
He   thrice   had  sent  a  herald  to   the 

gates, 
To  learn  if  Ida  yet  would  cede  our 

claim, 
■Or  by  denial  flush  her  babbling  wells 
With    her    own    people's  life :    three 

times  he  went : 
The  first,  he  blew  and  blew,  but  none 

appear'd  : 
He  batter'd  at  the  doors ;  none  came  : 

the  next, 
An  awful  voice  within  had  warn'd  him 

thence : 
The  third,  and  those  eight  daughters 

of  the  plough 
Came    sallying  thro'  the    gates,   and 

caught  his  hair, 
And  so  belabor'd  him  on  rib  and  cheek 
They  made   him  wild:    not  less   one 

glance  he  caught 
Thro'  open  doors  of  Ida  station'd  there 
Unshaken,   clinging  to    her    purpose, 

firm 
Tho'  compass' d  by  two  armies  and  the 

noise 
Of  arms  ;  and  standing  like  a  stately 

Pine 
Set  in  a  cataract  on  an  island-crag. 
When   storm   is   on   the   heights*  and 
I  right  and  left 


Suck'd  from  the  dark  heart  of  the  long 

hills  roll 
The  torrents,  dash'd  to  the  vale :  and 

yet  her  will 
Bred  will  in  me  to  overcome  it  or  fall. 

But  when  I  told  the  king  that  I  was 

pledged 
To   fight  in  tourney  for  my  bride,  he 

clash'd 
His  iron  palms  together  with  a  cry; 
Himself  would  tilt  it  out  among  the 

lads : 
But  overborne  by  all  his  bearded  lords 
With   reasons   drawn   from    age    and 

state,  perforce 
He  yielded,  wroth  and  red,  with  fierce 

demur: 
And  many  a  bold  knight  started  up  in 

heat, 
And  sware  to  combat  for  my  claim  till 

death. 

All  on  this  side  the  palace  ran  the 

fieJd 
Flat  to  the  garden  wall :  and  likewise 

here. 
Above  the  garden's  glowing  blossom- 
belts, 
A  column'd  entry  shone  and  marble 

stairs, 
And  great    bronze    valves,   emboss'd 

with  Tomyris 
And  what  she  did  to  Cyrus  after  fight, 
But  now  fast  barr'd  :  so  here  upon  the 

flat 
All  that  long  morn  the  lists  were  ham- 

mer'd  up, 
And  all  that  morn  the  heralds  to  and 

fro, 
With  message  and  defiance,  went  and 

came ; 
Last,  Ida's  answer,  in  a  royal  hand. 
But  shaken  here  and  there,  and  rolling 

words 
Oration-like.     I  kiss'd  it  and  I  read. 

"O  brother,  you  have    known  th^ 

pangs  we  felt. 
What  heats  of   indignation  when   w« 

heard 
Of  those  that  iron-cramo'd. their  wte 

men's  feet ; 


l6o 


THE  PRINCESS. 


Of  lands  in  which  at  the  altar  the  poor 

bride 
Gives  her  harsh  groom  for  bridal-gift 

a  scourge ; 
Of  living  hearts  that  crack  within  the 

fire 
Where   smoulder  their  dead  despots; 

and  of  those, — 
Mothers, — that,  all  prophetic  pity,  fling 
Their    pretty   maids    in    the   running 

flood,  and  swoops 
The   vulture,  beak   and   talon,  at   the 

heart 
Made  for  all  noble  motion  :  and  I  saw 
That  equal  baseness  lived  in  sleeker 

times 
With  smoother  men ;   the  old  leaven 

leaven'd  all : 
Millions   of    throats   would   bawl    for 

civil  rights, 
No  woman  named  :  therefore  I  set  my 

face 
Against  all   men,   and  lived  but  for 

mine  own. 
Far  off  from  men  I  built  a  fold  for 

them : 
I  stored  it  full  of  rich  memorial : 
I  fenced  it  round   with   gallant   insti- 
tutes. 
And  biting  laws  to  scare  the  beasts  of 

prey,  [boys 

And   prosper'd ;   till   a  rout  of  saucy 
Brake  on  us  at  our  books,  and  marr'd 

our  peace, 
Mask'd   like   our   maids,  blustering   I 

knew  not  what 
Of   insolence   and   love,  some  pretext 

held 
Of  baby  troth,  invalid,  since  my  will 
SeaJ'd  not  the  bond — the  striplings! — 

for  their  sport  ! — 
I  tamed  my  leopards:  shall  I  not  tame 

these? 
Or  you  ?  or  I  ?  for  since  you  think  me 

touch'd 
In  honor — what,  I  would  not  aught  of 

false — 
Is  not  our  cause  pure  ?  and  whereas  I 

know 
Your  prowess,  Arac,  and  what  mother's 

blood 


You   draw   from,   fight,  you  failing,  I 

abide 
What  end  soever:    fail  you  will  not. 

Still 
Take  not  his  life  :  he  risk'd  it  for  my 

own ; 
His  mother  lives  :  yet  whatsoe'er  you 

do, 
Fight  and  fight  well ;  strike  and  strike 

home.     O  dear 
Brothers,  the   woman's  Angel   guards 

you,  you 
The  sole  men  to  be  mingled  with  our 

cause. 
The  sole  men  we  shall  prize   in  the 

after-time, 
Your  very  armor  hallow'd,  and  your 

statues 
Rear'd,  sung    to,    when    this    gad-fly 

brush'd  aside. 
We  plant  a  solid  foot  into  the  Time, 
And   mould  a    generation    strong    to 

move 
With   claim   on   claim   from   right   to 

right,  till  she 
Whose  name  is  yoked  with  children's, 

know  herself ; 
And  knowledge  in  our  own  land  make 

her  free. 
And,  ever  following  those  two  crown'd 

twins, 
Commerce  and  conquest,  shower  the 

fiery  grain 
Of  freedom   broadcast  over  all   that 

orbs 
Between  the  Northern  and  the  South- 
ern morn." 

Then  came  a  postcript  dash'd  across 

the  rest. 
"  See  that  there  be  no  traitors  in  yoar 

camp  : 
We  seem  a  nest  of  traitors — none  to 

trust : 
Since    our    arms    faii'd  —  this   Egypt 

plague  of  men ! 
Almost  our  maids  were  better  at  their 

homes, 
Than  thus  man-girdled  here :  indeed  I 

think 
Our  chiefest  comfort  is  the  little  child 


THE  PRINCESS. 


i6l 


Of  one  unworthy  mother ;  which  she 

left: 
She  shall  not  have  it  back :  the  child 

shall  grow 
To  prize  the  authentic  mother  of  her 

mind. 
I  took  it  for  an  hour  in  mine  own  bed 
This  morning  :  there  the  tender  orphan 

hands 
Felt  at  my  heart,  and  seemed  to  charm 

from  thence 
The  wrath  I  nursed  against  the  world  : 

farewell." 

I  ceased:  he  said:  "Stubborn,  but 
she  may  sit 

Upon  a  king's  right  hand  in  thunder- 
storms, 

And  breed  up  warriors !  See  now, 
tho'  yourself 

Be  dazzled  by  the  wildfire  Love  to 
sloughs 

That  swallow  common  sense,  the  spin- 
dling king, 

This  Gama  swamp'd  in  lazy  tolerance. 

"When  the  man  wants  weight,  the 
woman  takes  it  up, 

And  topples  down  the  scales  ;  but  this 
is  fixt  [all ; 

As  are  the  roots  of  earth  and  base  of 

Man  for  the  field  and  woman  for  the 
hearth ; 

Man  for  the  sword  and  for  the  needle 
she  : 

Man  with  the  head  and  woman  with 
the  heart: 

Man  to  command  and  woman  to  obey; 

All  else  confusion.  Look  you !  the 
gray  mare 

Is  ill  to  live  with,  when  her  whinny 
shrills 

From  tile  to  scullery,  and  her  small 
good-man 

Shrinks  in  his  arm-chair  while  the  fires 
of  Hell 

Mix  with  his  hearth  :  but  you — she's 
yet  a  colt — 

Take,  break  her :  strongly  groom'd 
and  straitly  curb'd 

Slie  might  not  rank  with  those  detest- 
able 


That  let  the  bantling  scald  at  home, 

and  brawl 
Their  rights  or  wrongs  like  potherbs 

in  the  street. 
They   say   she's   comely ;    there's   the 

fairer  chance  : 
/  like  her  none  the  less  for  rating  at 

her! 
Besides,  the  woman  wed  is  not  as  we, 
But  suffers  change  of  frame.     A  lusty 

brace 
Of  twins  may  weed  her  of  her  folly. 

Boy, 
The   bearing    and  the    training  of  a 

child 
Is  woman's  wisdom." 

Thus  the  hard  old  king: 
I   took  my  leave,  for  it  was  nearly 

noon: 
I  pored  upon  her  letter  which  I  held, 
And  on  the  little  clause  "  take  not  his 

life:" 
I  mused  on  that  wild  morning  in  the 

woods, 
And  on  the  "  Follow,  follow,  thou  shalt 

win : " 
I  thought  on  all  the  wrathful  king  had 

said, 
And  how  the  strange  betrothment  was 

to  end  : 
Then  I  remember'd  that  burnt  sorcer- 
er's curse 
That  one   should  fight  with  shadows 

and  should  fall ; 
And  like  a  flash  the   weird  affection 

came : 
King,  camp  and  college  turn'd  to  hol- 
low shows ; 
I  seem'd  to  move  in  old  memorial  tilts, 
And  doing  battle  with  forgotten  ghosts, 
To   dream   myself   the   shadow   of    a 

dream: 
And   ere  I  woke  it  was  the  point   of 

noon. 
The  lists  were  ready.     Empanoplied 

and  plumed 
We  enter'd  in,  and  waited,  fifty  there 
Opposed    to    fifty,    till    the    trumpet 

blared 
At  the  barrier  like  a  wild  horn  in  a 

land 


l62 


THE  PRINCESS. 


Of  echoes,  and   a  moment,  and   once 

more 
The    trumpet,  and   again :   which   the 

storm 
Of  galloping  hoofs  bare  on  the  ridge  of 

spears 
And  riders  front   to   front,  until   they 

closed 
In  conflict  with  the  crash  of  shivering 

points, 
And  thunder.    Yet  it  seem' d  a  dream; 

I  dream'd 
Of  fighting.     On  his  haunches  rose  the 

steed, 
And  into  fiery  splinters  leapt  the  lance. 
And  out  of  stricken  helmets  sprang  the 

fire. 
A  noble  dream !  what  was  it  else  I 

saw .'' 
Part  sat  like  rocks;  part  reel'd  but 

kept  their  seats ; 
Part  roll'd  on  the  earth  and  rose  again 

and  drew  : 
Part  stumbled  mixt  with  floundering 

horses.     Down 
From  those  two  bulks  at  Arac's  side, 

and  down  [flail. 

From  Arac's   arm,  as   from   a   giant's 
The  large  blows  rain'd,  as  here  and 

everywhere 
He  rode  the  mellay,  lord  of  the  ringing 

lists, 
And  all  the  plain — brand,  mace,  and 

shaft,  and  shield — 
Shock'd,   like   an    iron-clanging    anvil 

bang'd 
"With   hammers ;    till   I   thought,   can 

this  be  he 
Fro"m  Gama's  dwarfish  loins  ?  if  this 

be  so, 
The  mother  makes  us  most — and  in 

my  dream 
I  glanced  aside,  and  saw  the  palace- 
front 
Alive  with  fluttering  scarfs  and  ladies' 

eyes. 
And  highest,  among  the  statues,  statue- 
like, 
Between  a  cymbal'd  Miriam  and  a  Jael, 
With  Psyche's  babe,  was  Ida  watching 

us, 


A  single  band  of  gold  about  her  hair, 
Like  a  Saint's  glory  up  in  heaven :  but 

she 
No  saint — inexorable — no  tenderness— 
Too  hard,  too  cruel :  yet  she  sees  me 

fight, 
Yea,  let  her  see  me  fall !  with  that  I 

drave 
Among  the  thickest  and  bore  down  a 

Prince, 
And  Cyril,  one.     Yea,  let  me  make  my 

dream 
All   that   I   would.       But   that   large- 
moulded  man. 
His  visage  all  agrin  as  at  a  wake. 
Made  at  me  thro'  the  press,  and,  stag- 
gering back, 
With  stroke  on  stroke  the  horse  and 

horseman  came 
As  comes  a  pillar  of  electric  cloud, 
Flaying  the  roofs  and  sucking  up  the 

drains. 
And  shadowing  down  the  champaign 

till  it  strikes 
On  a  wood,  and  takes,  and  breaks,  and 

cracks,  and  spiits. 
And  twists  the  grain  with  such  a  roar 

that  Earth 
Reels,  and  the  herdsmen  cry ;  for  ev- 
erything [he 
Gave   way  before  him  :  only  Florian, 
That   loved  me  closer   than   his   own 

right  eye. 
Thrust  in  between ;  but  Arac  rode  him 

down  : 
And  Cyril  seeing  it,  push'd  against  the 

Prince, 
With  Psyche's  color  round  his  helmet, 

tough. 
Strong,   supple,   sinew-corded,  apt   at 

arms  ; 
But  tougher,  heavier,  stronger,  he  that 

smote 
And  threw  him  :  last  I  spurr'd  ;  I  felt 

my  veins 
Stretch  with  fierce  heat;  a  moment 

hand  to  hand. 
And   sword   to    sword,   and   horse   to 

horse  we  hung. 
Till   I   struck  out  and  shouted;   the 

blade  glanced ; 


«  But  high  upon  the  palace  Ida  stood 
With  Psyche's  babe  in  arm.'''' 

The  Princess,  Canto  VI,  Page  143. 


THE  PRINCESS. 


163 


I  did  but  shear  a  feather,  and  dream 

and  truth 
Flow'd  from  me ;  darkness  closed  me ; 

Pnd  I  fell. 


Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead ; 

She  nor  swoon'd,  nor  utter'd  cry : 
All  her  maidens,  watching,  said, 

"  She  must  weep  or  she  will  die." 

Then  they  praised  him,  soft  and  low, 
Call'd  him  worthy  to  be  loved. 

Truest  friend  and  noblest  foe ; 
Yet  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

Stole  a  maiden  from  her  place, 
Lightly  to  the  warrior  stept. 

Took  the  face-cloth  from  the  face ; 
Yet  she  neither  moved  nor  wept. 

Rose  a  nurse  of  ninety  years. 
Set  his  child  upon  her  knee — 

Like  summer  tempest  came  her  tears — 
"  Sweet  my  child,  I  live  for  thee." 


My  dream    had  never  died  or  lived 

again. 
As  in  some  mystic  middle  state  I  lay ; 
Seeing  I  saw  not,  hearing  not  I  heard ; 
Tho',  if  I  saw  not,  yet  they  told  me  all 
So  often  that  I  speak  as  having  seen. 

For  so  it  seem'd,  or  so  they  said  to 

me. 
That  all  things  grew  more  tragic  and 

more  strange  ; 
That   when   our   side  was  vanquish'd 

and  my  cause 
Forever  lost,  there  went  up  a  great  cry. 
The  Prince  is  slain.     My  father  heard 

and  ran 
In  on  the  lists,  and  there  unlaced  my 

casque 
And  grovell'd  on  my  body,  and  after 

him 
Came  Psyche,  sorrowing  for  Aglaia. 


But  high  upon  the  palace  Ida  stood 
With  Psyche's  babe  in  arm :  there  on 

the  roofs 
Like  that  great  dame  of  Lapidoth  she 
sang. 

"  Our    enemies    have    fall'n,    have 

fall'n  :  the  seed 
The  little  seed  they  laugh'd  at  in  the 

dark. 
Has  risen  and  cleft  the  soil,  and  grown 

a  bulk 
Of  spanless  girth,  that  lays  on  every 

side 
A  thousand  arms  and  rushes  to  the 

Sun. 
"Our    enemies    have    falPn,    have 

fall'n:  they  came: 
The   leaves  were  wet  with  women's 

tears :  they  heard 
A  noise  of  songs  they  would  not  un- 
derstand : 
Thev  mark'd  it  with  the  red  cross  to 

'the  fall. 
And  would   have   strown  it,  and  are 

fall'n  themselves. 

"  Our    enemies    have    fall'n,    have 

fall'n :  they  came. 
The  woodmen  with  their  axes :  lo  the 

tree! 
But  we  will   make   it  fagots  for   the 

hearth. 
And  shape  it  plank  and  beam  for  roof 

and  floor, 
And  boats  and  bridges  for  the  use  of 

men. 

"Our  enemies  have  fall'n,  have 
fall'n  :  they  struck; 

With  their  own  blows  they  hurt  them- 
selves, nor  knew 

There  dwelt  an  iron  nature  in  the 
grain : 

The  glittering  axe  was  broken  in  their 
arms, 

Their  arms  were  shatter'd  to  the 
shoulder  blade. 

"  Our  enemies  have  fall'n,  but  this 
shall  grow 
A  night  of  Summer  from  the  heat,  % 
breadth 


i64 


THE  PRINCESS. 


Of  Autumn,  dropping  fruits  of  power ; 

and  roll'd 
With  music  in  the  growing  breeze  of 

Time, 
The  tops  shall  strike  from  star  to  star, 

the  fangs 
Shall    move   the    stony   bases   of   the 

world. 

"And    now,   O   maids,   behold   our 

sanctuary 
Is  violate,  our  laws  broken:  fear  we 

not 
To  break  them  more  in  their  behoof, 

whose  arms 
Champion'd  our  cause  and  won  it  with 

a  day 
Blanch'd  in  our  annals,  and  perpetual 

feast, 
When  dames  and  heroines  of  the  gold- 
en year 
Shall  strip  a  hundred  hollows  bare  of 

Spring, 
To  rain  an  April  of  ovation  round 
Their   statues,  borne  aloft,  the  three : 

but  come, 
We  will  be  liberal,  since  our  rights  are 

won. 
Let   them  not  lie   in  the  tents  with 

coarse  mankind, 
111    nurses ;  but   descend,  and   proffer 

these 
The  brethren  of  our  blood  and  cause, 

that  there 
Lie  bruised  and   maim'd,  the  tender 

ministries 
Of  female  hands  and  hospitality." 

She  spoke,  and  with  the  babe  yet  in 

her  arms, 
Descending,    burst,   the  great  bronze 

valves,  and  led 
A  hundred  maids  in  train  across  the 

Park. 
Some  cowl'd,  and  some  bare-headed, 

on  they  came. 
Their  feet  in  flowers,  her  loveliest :  by 

them  went 
The  enamor'd  air  sighing,  and  on  their 

curls 
From  the  high  tree  the  blossom  waver- 
ing fell, 


And  over  them  the  tremulous  isles  o! 

light, 
Slided,  the  moving  under  shade:  but 

Blanche 
At  distance  follow'd  :  so  they  came  : 

anon 
Thro'   open   field  into  the   lists   they 

wound 
Timorously ;  and  as  the  leader  of  the 

herd 
That  holds  a  stately  fretwork  to  the 

Sun, 
And  follow'd  up  by  a  hundred  airy 

does. 
Steps  with  a  tender  foot,  light  as  on 

air. 
The  lovely,  lordly  creature  floated  on 
To  where   her  wounded  brethren  lay; 

there  stay'd ; 
Knelt    on    one    knee, — the    child  on 

one, — and  prest 
Their  hands,  and  call'd  them  dear  de- 
liverers. 
And    happy    warriors    and    immortal 
j  names, 

I  And  said,  "  You  shall  not  lie  in  the 

tents  but  here, 
And   nursed  by  those  for  whom  you 

fought,  and  served 
With  female  hands  and  hospitality." 

Then,  whether  moved  by  this,  or 

was  it  chance, 
She  past  my  way.     Up  started  from 

my  side 
The  old  lion,  glaring  with  his  whelp- 
less  eye. 
Silent ;  but  when   she   saw  me   lying 

stark, 
Dishelm'd  and  mute,  and  motionlessly 

pale. 
Cold  ev'n  to  her,  she  sigh'd ;  and  when 

she  saw 
The  haggard  father's  face  and  reverend 

beard 
Of  grisly  twine,  all  dabbled  with  the 

blood 
Of  his  own  son,  shudder'd  a  twitch  of 

pain, 
Tortured  her  mouth,  and  o'er  her  tore* 

head  past 


THE  PRINCESS. 


^5 


A  shadow,  and  her  hue  changed,  and 

she  said: 
*'  He  saved  my  life :  my  brother  slew 

him  for  it." 
No  more  :  at  which  the  king  in  bitter 

scorn 
Drew  from  my  neck  the  painting  and 

the  tress, 
And  held  them  up  :  she  saw  them,  and 

a  day 
Rose  from  the  distance  on  her  memory, 
"When   the   good   Queen,  her   mother, 

shore  the  tress 
With   kisses,   ere    the  days   of  Lady 

Blanche  : 
And  then  once  more  she  look'd  at  my 

pale  face : 
Till  understanding  all  the  foolish  work 
Of  Fancy,  and  the  bitter  close  of  all, 
Her  iron  will  was  broken  in  her  mind; 
Her   noble   heart  was  molten   in  her 

breast; 
She   bow'd,  she   set  the  child  on  the 

earth ;  she  laid 
A   feeling   finger   on  my   brows,   and 

presently 
"  O  Sire,"  she   said,  *'  he   lives  :  he  is 

not  dead  : 
O  let  me  have  him  with  my  brethren 

here  [him 

In  our  own  palace  :  we  will  tend  on 
Like  one  of  these ;  if  so,  by  any  means, 
To  lighten  this  great  clog  of  thanks, 

that  make 
Our  progress  falter  to  the  woman's 

goal." 

She   said  :  but  at  the  happy  word 

"  he  lives," 
My  father  stoop'd,  re-father'd  o'er  my 

wounds. 
So  those  two  foes  above  my  fallen  life, 
With   brow  to   brow  like    night   and 

evening  mixt 
Their  dark  and  gray,   while   Psyche 

ever  stole 
A  little  nearer,  till  the  babe  that  by  us, 
Half-lapt  in  glowing  gauze  and  golden 

brede. 
Lay  like  a  new  fall'n  meteor  on  the 

grass, 


Uncared   for,   spied   its    mother    and 

began 
A  blind  and  babbling  laughter,  and  to 

dance 
Its  body,  and  leach  its  fatling  innocent 

arms 
And   lazy  lingering  fingers.      She  the 

appeal 
Brook'd  not,  but  clamoring  cut  "Mine 

— mine — not  yours. 
It  is  not  yours,  but  mine  :  give  me  the 

chilcl," 
Ceased  all  on  tremble  :  piteous  was  the 

cry : 
So  stood  the   unhappy  mother  open- 

mouth'd. 
And   turn'd  her  face  each  way :  wan 

was  her  cheek 
With    hollow    watch,     her    blooming 

mantle  torn, 
Red  grief  and  mother's  hunger  in  her 

eye, 
And  down  dead-heavy  sank  her  curls, 

and  half 
The  sacred  mother's   bosom,  panting 

burst 
The  laces  toward  her  babe;  but  she 

nor  cared 
Nor   knew   it,  clamoring   on,   till  Ida 

heard, 
Look'd  up,  and  rising  slowly  from  me, 

stood 
Erect    and   silent,   striking   with    her 

glance 
The  mother,  me,  the  child ;  but  he  that 

lay 
Beside  us,  Cyril,  batter'd  as  he  was, 
Trail'd  himself  up  on  one  knee ;  then 

he  drew 
Her  robe  to  meet  his  lip§,  and  down 

she  look'd 
At  the  arm'd  man  sideways,  pitying,  as 

it  seem'd. 
Or  self-involved ;  but  when  she  learnt 

his  face, 
Remembering  his  ill-omen'd  song,  arose 
Once  more  thro'  all  her  height,  and  o'er 

him  grew 
Tall  as  a  figure  lengthen'd  on  the  sand 
When  the  tide  ebbs  in  sunshine,  and 

he  said ; 


66 


THE  PRINCESS. 


"  O  fair   and   strong    and  terrible ! 

Lioness 
Tiiat   with  your   long  locks   play  the 

Lion's  mane  ! 
T3ut  Love  and  Nature,  these  are  two 

more  terrible 
And  stronger.     See,  your  foot  is  on  our 

necks, 
We  vanquish'd,  you  the  victor  of  your 

will, 
What  would  you  more  ?  give  her  the 

child  !  remain 
Orb'd  in  your  isolation  :  he  is  dead, 
Or  all  as  dead :  henceforth  we  let  you 

be: 
Win   you  the  hearts  of  women  ;  and 

beware 
Lest,  where  you  seek  the  common  love 

of  these, 
The  common  hate  with  the  revolving 

wheel 
Should  drag  you  down,  and  some  great 

Nemesis 
Break  from  a  darken'd  future,  crown'd 

with  fire 
And  tread  you  out  forever  :  but  how- 

soe'er 
Fix'd  in  yourself,  never  in  your  own 

arms 
To  hold  your  own,  deny  not  hers  to 

her, 
Give   her  the  child  !     O  if,  I  say,  you 

keep 
One  pulse  that  beats   true  woman,  if 

you  loved 
The  breast  that  fed  or  arm  that  dandled 

you. 
Or  own  one  part  of  sense  not  flint  to 

prayer, 
Give  her  the  child  1  or  if  you  scorn  to 

lay  it, 
Vourself,  in  hands  so  lately  claspt  with 

yours. 
Or  speak  to  her,  your  dearest,  her  one 

fault 
The  tenderness,  not  yours,  that  could 

not  kill, 
Give  me  it;  /will  give  it  her." 

He  said : 
At  first   her  eye  with  slow    dilation 

roll'd 


Dry   flame,   she   listening;  after  sank 

and  sank 
And,  into  mournful  twilight  mellowing, 

dwelt 
Full  on  the  child  ;  she  took  it :  "  Pretty 

bud! 
Lily  of  the  vale!  half  open'd  bell  of 

the  woods  ! 
Sole  comfort  of  my  dark  hour,  when  a 

world 
Of  traitorous  friend  and  broken  system 

made 
No  purple  in  the  distance,  mystery, 
Pledge  of  a  love  not  to  be  mine,  fare- 
well; 
These  men  are  hard  upon  us  as  of  old, 
We  too  must  part :  and  yet  how  fain 

was  I 
To  dream  thy  cause  embraced  in  mine, 

to  think  [felt 

I  might  be  something  to  thee,  when  I 
Thy  helpless  warmth  about  my  barren 

breast 
In  the  dead  prime :  but  may  thy  mother 

prove  [me  I 

As  true  to  thee  as  false,  false,  false  to 
And,  if  thou  needs  must  bear  the  yoke, . 

I  wish  it 
Gentle  as  freedom" — here  she  kissed 

it :  then— 

"  All  good  go  with  thee  !  take  it,  Sir," 

and  so 
Laid  the  soft  babe  in  his  hard-mailed 

hands, 
V/ho  turn'd  half-round  to   Psyche  as 

she  sprang 
To  meet  it,  with  an  eye  that  swum  in 

thanks : 
Then  felt   it   sound   and   whole   from 

head  to  foot, 
And  hugg'd  and  never  hugg'd  it  close 

enough, 
And  in  her  hunger  mouth'd  and  mum- 
bled it. 
And  hid  her  bosom  with  it ;  after  that 
Put  on  more  calm  and  added  suppli- 

antly : 

*'  We  two  were  friends :  I  go  to  mine 
own  land 
Forever :  find  some  other  :  as  for  me 


THE  PRINCESS. 


167 


I  scarce  am  fit  for  your  great  plans  : 
yet  speak  to  me, 

Say  one  soft  word  and  let  me  part  for- 
given." 

But  Ida  spoke  not,  rapt  upon  the 

child. 
Then  Arac.  **  Ida — 'sdeath  !  you  blame 

the  man ; 
You  wrong  yourselves — the  woman  is 

so  hard 
Upon  the  woman.     Come,  a  grace  to 

me ! 
I  am  your  warrior ;  I  and  mine  have 

fought 
Your  battle  :  kiss  her ;  take  her  hand, 

she  weeps  : 
*Sdeath !  I  would  sooner  fight  thrice 

o'er  than  see  it." 

But  Ida  spoke  not,  gazing  on  the 

ground. 
And  reddening  in  the  furrows  of  his 

chin. 
And  moved  beyond  his  custom,  Gama 

said : 

♦'  I've  heard  that  there  is  iron  in  the 

blood. 
And  I  believe  it.     Not  one  word  }  not 

one  ? 
"Whence  drew  you  this  steel  temper  ? 

not  from  me, 
Not    from  your  mother  now  a  saint 

with  saints.    . 
She  said  you  had  a  heart — I  heard  her 

say  it — 

*  Our  Ida  has  a  heart ' — just  ere  she 

died — 

*  But  see  that  some  one  with  authority 
Be  near  her  still,'  and  I — I  sought  for 

one — 
All  people  said  she  had  authority — 
The  Lady  Blanche  :  much  profit !  Not 

one  word  ; 
No  !    tho'  your  father  sues :  see  how 

you  stand 
Stiff  as  Lot's  wife,  and  all  the  good 

knights  maim'd, 
I  trust  that  there  is  no  one  hurt  to 

death, 


For  your  wild  whim  :  and  was  it  then 

for  this, 
Was  it  for  this  we  gave  our  palace  up, 
Where  we   withdrew    from  summer 

heats  and  state. 
And  had  our  wine  and  chess  beneath 

the  planes. 
And  many  a  pleasant  hour  with  her 

that's  gone, 
Ere  you  were  born  to  vex  us  }    Is  it 

kind  ? 
Speak  to  her  I  say ;  is  this   the  son  of 

whom, 
When  first  she  came,  all  flush'd  you 

said  to  me 
Now  had  you  got  a  friend  of  your  own 

age. 
Now  could  you  share  your  thought ; 

now  should  men  see 
Two  women  faster  welded  in  one  love 
Than  pairs  of  wedlock  ;  she  you  walk'd 

with,  she 
You  talk'd  with,  whole  nights  long,  up 

in  the  tower, 
Of  sine  and  arc,  spheroid  and  azimuth, 
And  right  ascension,   Heaven  knows 

what ;  and  now 
A  word,   but   one,   one   little    kindly 

word. 
Not  one  to  spare  her  :  out  upon  you, 

flint ! 
You  love  nor  her,  nor  me,  nor  any ; 

nay. 
You  shame  your  mother's    judgment 

too.     Not  one  ? 
You  will  not  t  well — no  heart  have  you, 

or  such 
As  fancies  like  the  vermin  in  a  nut 
Have  fretted  all  to  dust  and  bitter- 
ness." 
So  said  the  small  king  moved  beyond 

his  wont. 

But  Ida  stood  nor  spoke,  drained  of 
her  force 

By  many  a  varying  influence  and  so 
long. 

Down  thro'  her  limbs  a  drooping  lan- 
guor wept  : 

Her  head  a  little  bent;  and  on  hei 
mouth 


1 68 


THE  PRINCESS. 


A  doubtful  smile  dwelt  like  a  clouded 

moon 
In  a  still  water  :  then  brake  out  my  sire 
Lifting  his  grim  head  from  my  wounds. 

"  O  you, 
Woman,   whom   we    thought    woman 

even  now. 
And  were  half  fool'd  to  let  you  tend  our 

son, 
Because  he  might  have  wish'd  it — but 

we  see 
The  accomplice  of  your  madness  un- 

forgiven. 
And   think   that  you   might    mix   his 

draught  with  death, 
When  your   skies  change   again :  the 

rougher  hand 
Is  safer  :  on  to  the  tents  :  take  up  the 

Prince." 

He  rose,  and    while  each  ear  was 
prick'd  to  attend 
A  tempest,  thro'  the  cloud  that  dimm'd 

her  broke 
A  genial  warmth  and  light  once  more, 

and  shone 
Thro'   glittering    drops    on   her    sad 
friend. 

"  Come  hither, 

0  Psyche,"  she  cried  out,  "  embrace 

me,  come. 

Quick  while  I  melt;  make  reconcile- 
ment sure 

With  one  that  cannot  keep  her  mind 
an  hour  : 

Come  to  the  hollow  heart  they  slander 
so ! 

Kiss  and  be  friends,  like  children  being 
chid ! 

/seem  no  more;  /  want  forgiveness 
too  : 

1  should  have  had  to  do  with  none  but 

maids. 
That    have  no  links   with    men.     Ah 

false  but  dear, 
Dear  traitor,  too  much  loved,  why  1 — 

why }     Yet  see. 
Before  these  kings  we  embrace  you  yet 

once  more 
With  all  forgiveness,  all  oblivion, 
And  trust,  not  love,  you  less. 


And  now,  O  Sire, 
Grant  me  your  son,  to  nurse,  to  wait 

upon  him. 
Like  mine  own  brother.     For  my  debt 

to  him, 
This  nightmare  weight  of  gratitude,  I 

know  it ; 
Taunt  me  no  more  :  yourself  and  yours 

shall  have 
Free  adit ;  we  will  scatter  all  our  maids 
Till  happier  times  each  to  her  proper 

hearth : 
What  use  to  keep  them  here   now  } 

grant  my  prayer. 
Help,  father,  brother,  help ;  speak  to 

the  king  : 
Thaw  this  male  nature  to  some  touch 

of  that 
Which  kills  me  with  myself,  and  drags 

me  down 
From   my  fixt  height  to  mob  me  up 

with  all 
The  soft  and  milky  rabble  of  woman' 

kind. 
Poor  weakling  ev'n  as  they  are." 

Passionate  tears 
Follow'd  the  king  replied  not  :  Cyril 

said  : 
"  Your  brother,  Lady, — Florian, — ask 

for  him  [too — 

Of  your  great  head — for  he  is  wounded 
That  you  may  tend  upon  him  with  the 

Prince." 
"  Ay  so,"  said  Ida  with  a  bitter  smile, 
"  Our  laws  are  broken :  let  him  enter 

too." 
Then  Violet,  she  that  sang  the  mourn- 
ful song, 
And  had  a  cousin  tumbled  on  the  plain, 
Petition'd  too  for  him.     "  Ay  so,"  she 

said, 
*'  I  stagger   in   the   stream  :  I  cannot 

keep 
My  heart  an  eddy  from  the  brawling 

hour  : 
We  break  our  laws  with  ease,  but  let 

it  be." 
"  Ay  so  ? "  said   Blanche  :   •'  Amazed 

am  I  to  hear 
Your  Highness :    but    your   Highness 

breaks  with  ease 


THE  PRINCESS. 


169 


The  law  your  Highness  did  not  make  : 
'twas  I. 

I  had  been  wedded  wife,  I  knew  man- 
kind, 

And  block'd  them  out ;  but  these  men 
came  to  woo 

Your  Highness — verily  I  think  to  win." 
So  she,  and  turn'd  askance  a  wintry 
eye : 

But  Ida  with  a  voice,  that  like  a  bell 

Toll'd  by  an  earthquake  in  a  trembling 
tower, 

Rang  ruin,  answer'd  full  of  grief  and 
scorn. 

"  Fling  our  doors  wide  I  all,  all,  not 

one,  but  all. 
Not  only  he,  but  by  my  mother's   soul. 
Whatever  man  lies  wounded,  friend  or 

foe,  [flit, 

Shall  enter,  if  he  will.     Let   our   girls 
Till  the  storm  die !  but  had  you  stood 

by  us, 
The  roar  that  breaks  the  Pharos  from 

his  base 
Had  left  us  rock.     She    fain    would 

sting  us  too. 
But  shall  not.     Pass,  and  mingle  with 

your  likes. 
We   brook  no  further   insult  but  are 
,        gone.'' 

She  turn'd;  the   very  nape   of   her 

white  neck 
Was  rosed  with  indignation :  but  the 

Prince 
Her  brother  came  ;  the  king  her  father 

charm'd 
Her  wounded  soul  with  words:    nor 

did  mine  own 
Refuse  her    proffer,   lastly  gave    his 

hand. 

Then  us  they  lifted  up,  dead  weights, 

and  bare 
Straight   to   the  doors:  to   them    the 

doors  gave  way 
Groaning,   and   in    the    Vestal    entry 

shriek'd 
The  virgin  marble  under  iron  heels: 
And  on  they  moved  and  gain'd  the 

hall,  and  there 


Rested :  but  great  the  crush  was,  and 

each  base. 
To  left  and  right,  of  those  tall  columns 

drown'd 
In  silken  fluctuation  and  the  swarm 
Of  female   whisperers :  at  the  further 

end 
Was  Ida  by  the  throne,  the  two  great 

cats 
Close  by  her,   like    supporters  on  a 

shield, 
Bow-back'd    with    fear :   but    in   the 

centre  stood 
The  common  men  with   rolling   eyes; 

amazed 
They  glared   upon   the     women,   and 

aghast  [save. 

The  women  stared  at   these,  all  silent. 
When   armor  clash'd  or  jingled,  while 

the  day. 
Descending,  struck  athwart  the    hall 

and  shot 
A  flying   splendor  out  of  brass    and 

steel. 
That  o'er  the  statues  leapt  from   head 

to  head, 
Now  fired  an  angry   Pallas   on    the 

helm. 
Now  set  a  wrathful  Dian's  moon  on 

flame, 
And  now  and  then  an  echo  started  up, 
And   shuddering   fled   from   room    to 

room,  and  died 
Of  fright  in  far  apartments. 

Then  the  voice 
Of  Ida  sounded,  issuing  ordinance  : 
And  me  they  bore  up  the  broad  stairs, 

and  thro' 
The  long-laid  galleries  past  a  hundred 

doors 
To  one  deep  chamber  shut  from  sound, 

and  due 
To  languid  limbs  and  sickness ;  left  me 

in  it; 
And  others  otherwhere  they  laid;  and 

all 
That  afternoon  a  sound  arose  of  hoof 
And   chariot,  many  a  maiden   passing 

home 
Till  happier  times ;  but  some  were  left 

of  those 


170 


THE  PRINCESS. 


Held  sagest,  and  the  great  lords  out 

and  in, 
From  those  two  hosts  that  lay  beside 

the  walls, 
Walk'd  at   their   will   and   everything 

changed. 

Ask  me  no  more  :  the  moon  may  draw 
the  sea; 
The  cloud  may  stoop  from  heaven 

and  take  the  shape, 
With  fold  to  fold,  of  mountain  or  of 
cape  ; 
But    O   too   fond,   when    have    1   an- 
swer'd  thee  ? 

Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more  :  what  answer  should 
I  give  ? 
I  love  not  hollow  cheek  or  faded  eye  : 
Yet,  O  my  friend,  I   will    not   have 
thee  die! 
Ask  me  no  more,  lest  I  should  bid  thee 
live  ; 

Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more  :  thy  fate  and  mine 
are  seal'd : 
I  strove  against  the  stream  and  all 

in  vain  : 
Let  the  great  river   take  me  to  the 
main : 
No  more,  dear  love,  for  at  a  touch  I 
yield ; 

Ask  me  no  more. 

VII. 

So  was  their  sanctuary  violated, 
So  their  fair  college  turn'd  to  hospital; 
At  first  with  all  confusion  :  by  and  by 
Sweet   order   lived   again   with   other 

laws  ; 
A  kindlier  influence  reign'd  ;  and  every- 
where 
Low  voices  with  the  ministering  hand 
Hung  round  the   sick :    the   maidens 

came,  they  talk'd, 
They  sang,  they  read  :  till  she  not  fair, 

began 
To  gather  light,  and   she  that  was, 
became 


Her  former  beauty  treble  ;   and  to  and 

fro 
With  books,  with  flowers,  with  Angel 

offices. 
Like    creatures   native   unto   gracious 

act, 
And   in   their  own  clear  element,  they 

moved. 

But  sadness  on  the  soul  of  Ida  fell. 
And   hatred   of   her    weakness,   blent 

with  shame. 
Old  studies  fail'd  ;  seldom  she  spoke  ; 

but  oft 
Clomb   to   the   roofs,  and  gazed  alone 

for  hours 
On  that  disastrous  leaguer,  swarms  of 

men 
Darkening  her  female  field :  void  was 

her  use  ; 
And  she  as  one  that  climbs  a  peak  to 

gaze 
O'er  land  and  main,  and  sees  a  great 

black  cloud 
Drag  inward  from  the  deeps,  a  v/all  of 

night. 
Blot  out  the  slope  of  sea  from  verge  to 

shore, 
And  suck  the  blinding  splendor  from 

the  sand, 
And  quenching  lake  by  lake  and  tarn 

by  tarn 
Expunge  the  world  :  so  fared  she  gaz- 
ing there ; 
So  blacken' d  all  her  world  in  secret, 

blank 
And   waste   it   seem'd   and  vain ;   till 

down  she  came, 
And  found  fair  peace  once  more  among 

the  sick. 
And  twilight  dawn'd ;  and  morn  by 

morn  the  lark 
Shot  up  and  shrill'd  in  flickering  gyres, 

but  I 
Lay  silent  in  the  mufifled  cage  of  life  : 
And   twilight   gloom'd  ;  and   broader- 
grown  the  bowers 
Drew  the  great  night  into  themselves, 

and  Heaven, 
Star  after  star,  arose  and  fell ;  but  T, 
Deeper  than  those  weird  doubts  could 

reach  me,  lay 


THE  PRINCESS. 


171 


Quite  sunder'd  from  the  moving  Uni- 
verse, 

Nor  knew  wliat  eye  was  on  me,  nor  the 
hand 

That  nursed  me,  more  than  infants  in 
their  sleep. 

But   Psyche     tended   Florian  :  with 

her  oft^ 
Meh'ssa  came  ;  for  Blanche   had  gone, 

but  left 
Her  child  among  us,  willing  she  should 

keep 
Court-favor:  here  and  there  the  small 

bright  head, 
A  light  of   healing,  glanced  about  the 

couch, 
Or  thro'  the  parted  silks  the  tender 

face  [man 

Peep'd,  shining  in  upon  the  wounded 
With  blush  and  smile,  a  medicine  in 

themselves 
To  wile  the  length  from  languorous 

hours  and  draw 
The  sting   from   pain ;  nor  seem'd   it 

strange  that  soon 
He  rose  up    whole,  and    those    fair 

charities 
'^  Join'd  at  her  side ;  nor  stranger  seem'd 

that  hearts 
So  gentle,  so  employ'd,  should  close  in 

love, 
Than  when  two  dew-drops  on  the  petal 

shake 
To  the  same  sweet  air,  and  tremble 

deeper  down, 
And  slip  at  once  all-fragrant  into  one. 

Less  prosperously  the  second  suit 

obtain'd 
At   first  with    Psyche.     Not    though 

Blanche  had  sworn 
That  after  that  dark  night  among  the 

fields, 
She  needs  must  wed  him  for  her   own 

good  name  ; 
[    Not  tho'  he  built   upon   the   babe   re- 
stored; 
Nor  tho'  she  liked  him,  yielded  she,  but 

fear'd 
To  incense  the  Head  once   more  ;  till 

on  a  day 


When  Cyril  pleaded,  Ida  came  behind 
Seen  but  of  Psyche  :  on   her  foot  she 

hung 
A  moment,and  she  heard,  at  which  her 

face 
A  litde  flush'd,  and  she   past  on;  but 

each 
Assumed  from  thence   a  half-consent 

involved 
In  stillness,  plighted  troth,  and  were  at 

peace. 

Nor  only  these :  Love  in  the  sacred 

halls 
Held  carnival  at  will,  and  flying  struck 
With  showers  of  random  sweet  on  maid 

and  man. 
Nor  did  her  father  cease  to  press  my 

claim, 
Nor  did  mine  own  now  reconciled  ;  nor 

yet 
Did   those  twin  brothers,  risen   agaia 

and  whole ; 
Nor  Arac,  satiate  with  his  victory. 

But  I  lay  still,  and  with  me   oft  she 

sat  ; 
Then  came  a  change ;  for  sometimes  I 

would  catch 
Her  hand  in  wild  delirium,  gripe   it 

hard. 
And  fling  it  like  a  viper  off,  and  shriek 
"  You  are   not  Ida " ;    clasp   it  once 

again, 
And  call  her  Ida,  tho'  I  knew  her  not. 
And  call  her  sweet,  as  if  in  irony. 
And  call  her    hard  and   cold  which 

seem'd  a  truth : 
And  still  she  fear'd  that  I   should  lose 

my  mind. 
And  often  she  believed  that  I  should 

die : 
Till  out  of  long  frustration  of  her  care, 
And  pensive  tendance  in  the  all-weary 

noons. 
And  watches  in   the   dead,  the  dark, 

when  clocks 
Throbb'd    thunder    thro'    the    palace 

floors,  or  call'd 
On  flying  Time   from  all  their  silvei 

tongues — 


172 


THE  PRINCESS. 


And  out  of  memories   of  her   kindlier 

days, 
And  sidelong  glances   at  my  father's 

grief, 
And   at  the   happy    lovers    heart    in 

heart — 
And  out  of  hauntings  of  my  spoken 

love, 
And  lonely  listenings   to  my   mutter'd 

dream, 
And  often  feeling  of  the  helpless  hands. 
And  wordless  broodings  on  the  wasted 

cheek — 
From  all  a  closer  interest  flourished  up, 
Tenderness  touch  by  touch,  and  last, 

to  these, 
Love,   like   an  Alpine  harebell  hung 

with  tears 
By  some  cold  morning  glacier ;  frail  at 

first 
And  feeble,  all  unconscious  of  itself. 
But  such  as  gather'd  color  day  by  day. 

Last  I  woke  sane,  but  wellnigh  close 

to  death 
For  weakness :  it  was  evening :  silent 

light 
Slept  on   the  painted  walls,   wherein 

were  wrought 
Two  grand  designs :  for  on  one  side 

arose 
The   women  up  in    wild  revolt,  and 

storm'd 
At  the  Oppian  law.     Titanic  shapes, 

they  cramm'd 
The  forum,  and  half-crush'd  among  the 

rest 
A  dwarflike   Cato    cower'd.     On  the 

other  side 
Hortensia    spoke    against    the    tax ; 

behind, 
A  train  of  dames:  by  axe  and  eagle 

sat, 
With  all   their  foreheads    drawn    in 

Roman  scowls, 
And  half  the  wolf's-milk  curdled  in 

their  veins. 
The  fierce  triumvirs  :  and  before  them 

paused 
Hortensia,   pleading :    angry  was  her 

face. 


I  saw  the  forms :  I  knew  not  where 

I  was: 
They  did  but -seem   as   hollow   shows; 

nor  more 
Sweet   Ida :  palm   to   palm    she   sat : 

the  dew 
Dwelt  in  her  eyes,  and  softer   all   her 

shape 
And     rounder     show'd :  I     moved :  I 

sigh'd  •  a  touch 
Came  round  my  wrist,  and  tears  upon 

my  hand : 
Then  all  for  languor  and  self-pity  ran 
Mine  down  my  face,  and  with  what  life 

I  had. 
And  like  a  flower  that  cannot  all  un- 
fold. 
So  drench'd  it  is  with  tempest,  to  the 

sun. 
Yet,  as  it  may,  turns  toward  him,  I  on 

her 
Fixt  my  faint  eyes,  and  utter'd  whisper- 

ingly  : 

"  If  you  be,  what  I  think  you,  some 

sweet  dream, 
I  would  but  ask  you  to  fulfil  yourself : 
But  if  you  be  that  Ida  whom  I  knew, 
I  ask  you  nothing  :  only,  if  a  dream, 
Sweet  dream,  be  perfect.     I  shall  die 

to-night. 
Stoop  down  and  seem  to  kiss  me  ere  I 

die." 

I  could  no  more,  but  lay  like  one  in 

trance, 
That  hears  his  burial  talk'd  of  by  his 

friends. 
And    cannot    speak,   nor   move,    nor 

make  one  sign. 
But  lies   and  dreads  his  doom.     She 

turn'd  ;  she  paused  ; 
She  stoop'd ;  and  out  of  languor  leapt 

a  cry  ; 
Leapt  fiery  Passion  from  the  brinks  of 

death  ; 
And  I  believed  that  in  the  living  world 
My  spirit  closed  with  Ida's  at  the  lips  ; 
Till  back  I  fell,  and  from  mine  arms 

she  rose 
Glowing  all  over  noble  shame ;  and  all 


THE  PRINCESS. 


173 


Her  falser  self  slipt  from  her   like   a 

robe, 
And  left  her  woman,   lovelier   in   her 

mood 
Than  in  her  mould  that   other,  when 

she  carne 
From  barren  deeps  to  conquer  all  with 

love; 
And  down  the  streaming  crystal  dropt ; 

and  she 
Far-fleeted  by  the  purple  island  sides, 
Naked,  a  double  light  in  air  and  wave. 
To  meet  her  Graces,  where  they  deck'd 

her  out 
For  worship  without  end;  nor  end  of 

mine, 
Stateliest,  for    thee !    but    mute    she 

glided  forth. 
Nor  glanced  behind  her,  and  I  sank 

and  slept, 
Fill'd  thro'   and   thro'   with   Love,    a 

happy  sleep. 

Deep  in  the  night  I  woke  :  she,  near 
me,  held 
A  volume  of  the  Poets  of  her  land  : 
There  to  herself,  all  in  low  tones,  she 
read. 

"  Now  sleeps  thfc  crimson  petal,  now 

the  white ; 
Nor  waves  the  cypress  in  the  palace 

walk; 
Nor  winks  the  gold  fin  in  the  prophyry 

font: 
The  firefly  wakens :  waken  thou  with 

me. 

"  Now  droops  the  milkwhite  peacock 
like  a  ghost, 
And  like  a  ghost  she  glimmers  on  to 
me. 

*'  Now  lies  the  Earth  all  Danae  to 
the  stars, 
And  all  thy  heart. lies  open  unto  me. 

"  Now  slides  the  silent  meteor  on, 
and  leaves 
^  shining  furrow,  as  thy  thoughts  in 
me. 


'*  Now  folds   the  lily  all  her  sweet- 

ness  up, 
And  slips  into  the  bosom  of  the  lake : 
So  fold  thyself,  my  dearest,  thou,  and 

slip 
Into  my  bosom  and  oe  lost  in  me." 

I  heard  her    turn  the    page;    she 
found  a  small 
Sweet  Idyl,  and  once  more,  as  low,  she 
read: 

"  Come  down,  O  maid,  from  yonder 

mountain  height : 
What   pleasure    lives    in  height    (the 

shepherd  sang) 
In  height  and  cold,  the  splendor  of  the 

hills  t 
But  cease  to  move  so  near  the  Heavens, 

and  cease 
To  glide  a  sunbeam  by  the  blasted 

Pine, 
To  sit  a  star  upon  the  sparkling  spire ; 
And  come,  for  Love  is  of  the  valley, 

come, 
For  Love  is  of  the  valley,  come  thou 

down 
And  find  him ;  by  the   happy  thresh- 
old, he, 
Or  hand  in  hand  with  Plenty  in  the 

maize, 
Or  red  with  spirted  purple  of  the  vats. 
Or  foxlike  in  the  vine  ;  nor  cares  to 

walk 
With  Death  and  Morning  on  the  Silver 

Horns, 
Nor  wilt  thou  snare  him  in  the  white 

ravine, 
Nor  find  him  dropt  upon  the  firths  of 

ice. 
That  huddling  slant  in  furrow-cloven 

falls 
To  roll  the  torrent  out  of  dusky  doors : 
But  follow  ;  let  the  Current  dance  thee 

down 
To  find  him  in  the  valley  ;  let  the  wild 
Lean-headed  Eagles  yelp   alone,  and 

leave 
The  monstrous  ledges  there  to  slope, 

and  spill 
Their  thousand   wreaths   of  dangling 

water-smoke, 


174 


THE  PRINCESS. 


That  like  a  broken  purpose  waste  in 

air: 
So  waste  not  thou  ;  but  come  ;  for  all 

the  vales 
Await  thee ;  azure  pillars  of  the  hearth 
Arise  to  thee;  the  children  call,  and  I 
Thy  shepherd  pipe,  and  sweet  is  every 

sound, 
Sweeter  thy  voice,  but  every  sound  is 

sweet ;' 
Myriads  of  rivulets  hurrying  thro'  the 

lawn. 
The  moan  of  doves  in  immemorial  elms. 
And  murmuring  of  innumerable  bees." 
So  she  low-toned ;  while  with  shut 

eyes  I  lay 
Listening ;  then  look'd.     Pale  was  the 

perfect  face ; 
The   bosom  with  long  sighs  labor'd ; 

and  meek 
Seem'd   the    full    lips,   and  mild  the 

luminous  eyes, 
And- the  voice  trembled  and  the  hand. 

She  said 
Brokenlv,  that  .she  knew  it,  she  had 

fail'd 
In  sweet  humility ;  had  fail'd  in  all ; 
That  all  her  labor  was  but  as  a  block 
Left  in  the  quarry;  but  she  still  were 

loath, 
She  still  were  loath  to  yield  herself  to 

one, 
That  wholly  scorn'd  to  help  their  equal 

rights 
Against  the  sons  of  men,  and  barbarous 

laws. 
She  pray'd  me  not  to  judge  their  cause 

from  her 
That  wrong'd  it,   sought  far   less  for 

truth  than  power 
In  knowledge  :  something  wild  within 

her  breast, 
A  greater  than  all  knowledge,  beat  her 

down. 
And  she  had   nursed  me   there   from 

week  to  week : 
Much  had  she  learnt  in  little  time.     In 
^      part 

It  was  ill-counsel  had  misled  the  girl 
To  vex  true  hearts  :  yet  was  she  but  a 

girl— 


"Ah  fool,  and  made  myself  a  Queen  of 

farce  f 
When  comes  another  such  !  never,  I 

think 
Till  the  Sun  drop  dead  from  the  signs.'* 
Her  voice 
Choked,  and  her  forehead  .sank  upon 

her  hands, 
And  her  great  heart  through  all   the 

faultful  Past 
Went  sorrowing  in  a  pause  I  dared  not 

break  ; 
Till   notice   of  a  change  in  the  dark 

world 
Was  lisp'd  about  the   acacias,  and  a 

bird, 
That  early  woke    to  feed  her    little 

ones. 
Sent   from  a  dewy  breast  a  cry  for 

light  :  [fell 

She  moved,  and  at  her  feet  the  volume 

"Blame   not  thyself   too    much,"   I 

said,  "  nor  blame 
Too  much  iKe  sons  of  men  and  barbar- 
ous laws ; 
These  were  the  rough  ways    of  the 

world  till  now. 
Henceforth  thou   hast  a  helper,    me, 

that  know 
The  woman's  cause  is  man's :  they  rise 

or  sink 
Together,  dwarf'd  or  godlike,  bond  or 

free  : 
For  she  that  out  of  Lethe  scales  with 

man 
The   shining:  steps  of  Nature,  shares 

with  man 
His  nights,  his  days,  moves  with  him 

to  one  go^l, 
Stays  all  the  fair  young  planet  in  her 

hands — 
It  she  be  smallj  dight-natured,  misera- 
ble, 
How  shall  men  grow  ?   but  work  no 

more  alone ! 
Our  place  is  much  :  as  far  as  in  us  lies 
We  two  will  serve  them  both  in  aiding 

her — 
Will  clear  away  the  parasitic  forrris 
That  seem  to  keep  her  up  but  drag  he« 

down — 


THE  PRINCESS. 


175 


Will  leave  her  space  to  burgeon  out  of 

all 
Within  her — let  her  make  herself  her 

own 
To  give  or  keep,  to  live  and  learn  and 

be 
All  that  not  harms  distinctive  woman- 
hood. 
For  woman  is  not  undevelopt  man, 
But  diverse  :  could  we  make  her  as  the 

man. 
Sweet  love   were    slain :    his  dearest 

bond  is  this. 
Not  like  to  like,  but  like  in  difference. 
Yet  in  the  long  years  liker  must  they 

grow; 
The  man  be  more  of  woman,  she  of 

man ; 
He  gain  in  sweetness  and  in  moral 

height, 
Nor    lose    the    wrestling  thews   that 

throw  the  world ; 
She  mental  breadth,  nor  fail  in  child- 
ward  care, 
Nor  lose  the  childlike   in  the  larger 

mind; 
Till  at  the  last  she  set  herself  to  man. 
Like  perfect  music  unto  noble  words ; 
And  so  these  twain,  upon  the  skirts  of 

Time, 
Sit  side  by  side,  full-summ'd  in  all  their 

powers. 
Dispensing  harvest,  sowing  the  To-be, 
Self-reverent    each    and    reverencing 

each, 
Distinct  in  individualities. 
But  like  each  other  ev'n  as  those  who 

love. 
Then  comes  the  statelier  Eden  back  to 

men : 
Then  reign  the  world's  great  bridals, 

chaste  and  calm  : 
Then   springs  the    crowning  race  of 

humankind, 
May  these  things  be  !  " 

Sighing  she  spoke,  "  I  fear 
■  They  will  not." 

"  Dear,  but  let  us  type  them  now 
In  our  own  lives,  and  this  proud  watch- 
word rest 
Of  equal ;  seeing  either  sex  alone 


Is  half  itself,  and  in  true  marriage  lies 
Nor  equal,  nor  unequal ;  each  fulfils 
Defect  in  each,  and  always  thought  in 

thought. 
Purpose  in  purpose,  will  in  will,  thev 

grow, 
The  single  pure  and  perfect  animal, 
The  two-cell'd  heart  beating,  with  one 

full  stroke, 
Life." 
And  again  sighing  she  spoke :  "  A 

dream 
That  once  was  mine  !    what  woman 

taught  you  this  .'' " 

"  Alone,"  I  said,  "  from  earlier  than 

I  know. 
Immersed   in  rich  foreshadowings  of 

the  world, 
I  loved  the  woman  :  he,  that  doth  not, 

lives 
A  drowning  life,  besotted  in  sweet  self. 
Or  pines  in  sad  experience  worse  than 

death, 
Or  keeps  his  wing'd  affections  dipt 

with  crime  : 
Yet  was  there  one  thro'  whom  I  loved 

her,  one 
Not  learned,  save  in  gracious   house- 
hold ways, 
Not  perfect,  nay,  but  fuH  of  tender 

wants. 
No  Angel,  but  a  dearer  being,  all  dipt 
In  Angel  instincts,  breathing  Paradise, 
Interpreter  between  the  Gods  and  men. 
Who  look'd  all  native  to  her  place,  and 

yet 
On  tiptoe    seem'd  to    touch  upon  a 

sphere 
Too  gross  to  tread,  and  all  male  minds 

perforce 
Sway'd  to  her  from  their  orbits  as  they 

moved. 
And  girdled  her  with  music.     Happy 

he 
With  such  a  mother  !  faith  in  woman- 
kind 
Beats  with  his  blood,  and  trust  in  all 

things  high 
Comes   easy  to  him,  and  tho'  he  trip 

and  fall 


76 


THE  PRINCESS. 


He  shall  not  blind  his  soul  with  clay." 
"But  1," 

Said  Ida, tremulously,  "so  all  unHke — 

It  seems  you   love   to   cheat  youi'self 
with  words  : 

This  mother  is   your  model.     I  have 
heard 

Of  your    strange    doubts:    they  well 
might  be:  Iseem 

A  mockery  to  my  own  self.     Never, 
Prince ; 

You  cannot  love  me." 

"  Nay  but  thee,"  I  said 

"  From  yearlong  poring  on  thy   pic- 
tured eyes, 

Ere  seen  I  loved,  and  loved  thee  seen, 
and  saw 

Thee  woman  thro'  the  crust  of  iron 
moods 

That  mask'd  thee  from  men's  rever- 
ence up,  and  forced 

Sweet  love  on  pranks  of  saucy  boy- 
hood: now, 

Giv'n  back  to  life,  to  life  indeed,  thro' 
thee,  [light 

Indeed  I  love  :  the  new  day  comes,  the 

Dearer  for  night,  as  dearer  thou  for 
faults 

Lived  over :  lift  thine  eyes ;  my  doubts 
are  dead, 

My  haunting  sense  of  hollow  shows : 
the  change, 

This  truthful  change  in  thee  has  kill'd 
it.     Dear, 

Look  up,  and  let  thy  nature  strike  on 
mine, 

Like  yonder  morning  on  the  blind  half- 
world  ; 

Approach  and  fear  not ;  breathe  upon 
my  brows ; 

In  that  fine  air  I  tremble,  all  the  past 

Melts  mist-like  into  this  bright  hour, 
and  this 

Is  morn  to  more,  and  all  the  rich  to- 
come 

Reels,  as  the  golden  Autumn  woodland 
reels 

Athwart  the  smoke  of  burning  weeds. 
Forgive  me, 

JC  waste  my  heart  in  signs  :  let  be.    My 
bride, 


My  wife,  my  life.     O  we  will  walk  this 

world. 
Yoked  in  all  exercise  of  noble  end. 
And  so  thro'  those  dark  gates  across 

the  wild 
That  no  man  knows.     Indeed  I  love 

thee:  come, 
Yield  thyself  up  :  my  hopes  and  thine 

are  one ; 
Accomplish    thou   my    manhood  and 

thyself ; 
Lay  thy  sweet  hands  in  mine  and  trust 

to  me." 


CONCLUSION. 

So  closed  our  tale,  of  which  I  give  you 

all 
The   random  scheme  as  wildly  as  it 

rose : 
The  words  are  mostly  mine ;  for  when 

we  ceased 
There    came  a  minute's    pause,  and 

Walter  said, 
"  I  wish  she  had  not  yielded  ! "  then  to 

me, 
"  What,  if  you  drest  it  up  poetically !  " 
So  pray'd  the  men,  the  women  :  I  gave 

assent  : 
Yet  how  to  bind  the  scatter'd  scheme 

of  seven 
Together  in  one  sheaf?   What  style 

could  suit  ? 
The  men  required  that  I  should  give 

throughout 
The  sort  of  mock-heroic  gigantesque, 
With  which  we  banter'd  little   Lilia 

first: 
The  women — and  perhaps  they    felt 

their  power, 
For  something  in  the  ballads  which 

they  sang, 
Or  in  their  silent  influence  as  they  sat, 
Had  ever  seem'd  to  wrestle  with  bur- 
lesque, 
And  drove  us,  last,  to  quite  a  solemn 

close — 
They  hated  banter,  wish'd  for  some- 
thing real, 
A  gallant  fight,  a  noble  princess— why 


THE  PRINCESS. 


^71 


Not   make   her   true-heroic — true-sub- 
lime ? 
Or  all,  they  said,  as    earnest  as  the 

close  ? 
Which    yet   with    such   a  framework 

scarce  could  be. 
Then  rose  a  little  feud  betwixt  the  two, 
Betwixt  the  mockers  and  the  realists ; 
And  I,  betwixt  them  both,  to  please 

them  both, 
And  yet  to  give  the  story  as  it  rose, 
I  moved  as  in  a  strange  diagonal. 
And  maybe  neither  pleased  myself  nor 
them. 

But  Lilia  pleased  me,  for  she  took 

no  part 
In  our  dispute  :  the  sequel  of  the  tale 
Had   touch'd   her ;   and   she   sat,   she 

pluck'd  the  grass. 
She  flung  it  from  her,  thinking :  last, 

she  fixt 
A  showery  glance  upon  her  aunt,  and 

said, 
"  You — tell  us  what  we  are  "  who  might 

have  told, 
For   she   was   cramm'd  with   theories 

out  of  books, 
But  that  there  rose  a  shout ;  the  gates 

were  closed 
At  sunset,  and  the  crowd  were  swarm- 
ing now. 
To  take  their  leave,  about  the  garden 

rails. 

So  I  and  some  went  out  to  these : 

we  climb'd 
The  slope  to  Vivian-place,  and  turning 

saw 
The  happy  valleys,  half  in  light,  and 

half 
Far-shadowing  from  the  west,  a  land  of 

peace  ; 
Gray   halls   alone  among  the  massive 

groves  ; 
Trim  hamlets;  here  and  there  a  rustic 

tower 
Half-lost  in  belts  of  hop  and  breadths 

of  wheat ; 
The  shimmering  glimpses  of  a  stream  ; 

the  seas  ; 


A  red  sail,  or  a  white  ;  and  far  beyond. 
Imagined  more  than  seen,  the  skirts  of 
France. 

"  Look  there,  a  garden ! "   said  my 

college  friend. 
The   Tory   member's   elder  son,  "  and 

there  ! 
God  bless  the  narrow  sea  which  keeps 

her  off. 
And   keeps  our  Britain,  whole  within 

herself, 
A  nation  yet,  the  rulers  and  the  ruled — • 
Some   sense   of  duty,  something  of  a 

faith, 
Some  reverence  for  the  laws  ourselves 

have  made, 
Some   patient  force   to   change   them 

when  we  will, 
Some  civic  manhood  firm  against  the 

crowd — 
But  yonder,  whiff !  there  comes  a  sud- 
den heat. 
The  gravest  citizen  seems  to  lose  his 

head. 
The  king  is  scared,  the  soldier  will  not 

fight, 
The    little    boy   begins   to   shoot   and 

stab, 
A  kingdom  topples  over  with  a  shriek 
Like  an  old  woman,  and  down  rolls  the 

world 
In   mock   heroics    stranger   than   our 

own ; 
Revolts,  republics,  revolutions,  most 
No  graver  than  a  school-boys'  barring 

out; 
Too  comic  for  the  solemn  things  they 

are. 
Too  solemn  for  the  comic  touches  in 

them, 
Like  our  wild  Princess  with  as  wise  a 

dream 
As  some  of  theirs — God  bless  the  nar- 
row seas ! 
I   wish   they   were   a   whole   Atlantic 

broad." 

"Have   patience,"  I  replied,  "our- 
selves are  full 
Of  social  wrong ;  and  maybe  wildest 
dreams 


178 


THE  PRINCESS. 


Are  but  the  needful   preludes  of  the 

truth : 
For  me,    the   genial   day,    the    happy 

crowd, 
The  sport  half-science,  fill  me  with  a 

faith. 
This  fine  old  world  of  ours  is  but  a 

child 
Yet  in  the  go-cart.     Patience  !    Give  it 

time 
To  learn  its  limbs :  there  is  a  hand  that 

guides." 

In  such  discourse  we  gain'd  the  gar- 
den rails, 
And  there  we  saw  Sir  Walter  where  he 

stood, 
Before  a  tower  of  crimson  holly-oaks. 
Among  six  boys,  head  under  head,  and 

look'd 
No  little  lily-handed  Baronet  he, 
A  great  broad-shoulder'd  genial  Eng- 
lishman, 
A  lord  of  fat  prize-oxen  and  of  sheep, 
A  raiser  of  huge  melons  and  of  pine, 
A  patron  of  some  thirty  charities, 
A  pamphleteer  on  guano  and  on  grain, 
A     quarter-sessions    chairman,    abler 

none  ; 
Fair-hair'd  and  redder  than  a  windy 

morn  ; 
Now  shaking  hands  with   him,   now 

him,  of  those 
That  stood  the  nearest — now  address'd 

to  speech — 
Who  spoke  few  words  and  pithy,  such 

as  closed 
Welcome,  farewell,  and  welcome  for 

the  year 
To  follow :  a  shout  rose   again,   and 
made 


The    long    line    of   the    approaching 

rookery  swerve 
From  the  elms,  and  shook  the  branches 

of  the  deer 
From  slope  to  slope  thro' distant  ferns, 

and  rang 
Beyond    the   bourn   of  sunset;    O,   a 

shout 
More  joyful  than  the    city-roar    that 

hails 
Premier   or  king !     Why  should   not 

these  great  Sirs 
Give  up  their  parks  some  dozen  times 

a  year 
To  let  the  people  breathe  t    So  thrice 

they  cried, 
I  likewise,  and  in  groups  they  stream'd 

away. 

But  we  went  back  to  the  Abbey,  and 

sat  on. 
So    much    the     gathering    darkness 

charm'd  :  we  sat 
But  spoke  not,  rapt  in  nameless  reverie, 
Perchance  upon  the  f uti  re  man :  the 

walls 
Blacken'd  about  us,  bats  wheel'd,  and 

owls  whoop'd. 
And  gradually  the  powers  of  the  night, 
That   range  above  the  region  of  the 

wind, 
Deepening  the  courts  of  twilight  broke 

them  up 
Thro*  all  the  silent  spaces  of  the  worlds, 
Beyond  all  thought  into  the  Heaven  of 

Heavens. 

Last  little  Lilia,  rising  quietly 
Disrobed  the  glimmering  statue  of  Sir 

Ralph 
From  those  rich  silks,  and  home  welt 
pleased  we  went. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


179 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


Strong  Son  of  God,  immortal  Love, 
Whom  we,  that  have  not  seen  thy 

face, 
By  faith,  and  faith  alone,  embrace, 
A  Believing  where  we  cannot  prove ; 

Thine  are  these  orbs  of  light  and  shade.; 

Thou  madest  life  in  man  and  brute  ; 

Thou  madest  Death ;  and  lo,  thy  foot 
Is  on  the  skull  which  thou  hast  made. 

Thou  \\."'t  not  leave  us  in  the  dust : 
Thou  madest  man,  he  knows  not  why; 
He  thinks  he  was  not  made  to  die ; 
K   And  thou  hast  made  him:  thou  art  just. 

Thou  seemest  human  and  divine, 
The  highest,  hoirest  manhood,  thou : 
Our  wills  are  ours,  we  know  not  how ; 
*  Our  wiljs_are  Pjy"^'''j J^^  make  them  thine. 

Our  little  systems  have  their  day ; 
They  have  their  day  and  cease  to  be  : 
They^aie  but  broJven  lights  of  thee, 

And  thou,  O  Lord,  art  more  than  they. 

We  have  but  faith :  we  cannot  know ; 

Yo\  knowledge  is  of  things  we  see  ; 

And  yet  we  trust  it  comes  from  thee, 
A  beam  in  darkness  :  let  it  grow. 

Let  knowledge  grow  from  more  to 
more. 

But  more  of  reverence  in  us  dwell  ; 

That  mind  and  soul,  according  well. 
May  make  one  music  as  before, 

But  vaster.  We  are  fools  and  slight ; 
We  mock  thee  when  we  do  not  fear : 
But  help  thy  foolish  ones  to  bear; 

Help  thy  vain  worlds  to  bear  thy  light. 

Forgive  what  seem'd  myosin  in  me  ; 

What    seem'd    my    worth    since    I 
began  ; 

For  merit  lives  from  man  to  man. 
And  not  from  man,  O  Lord,  to  thee. 


Forgive  my  grief  for  one  removed, 
Thy  creature,  whom  I  found  so  fair. 
I  trust  he  lives  in  thee,  and  there. 

I  find  him  worthier  to  be  loved. 

Forgive    these    wild    and    wandering 
cries,  ' 

Confusions  of  a  wasted  youth  ; 
Forgive    them  where    they   fail    in 
truth. 
And  in  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


A.  H.  H. 


OBIIT    MDCCCXXXIII. 


y 


I  HELD  it  truth,  with  him  who  sings 
To  one  clear  harp  in  divers  tones. 
That   men   may  rise   on    stepping- 
stones 

Of  their  dead  selves  to  higher  things. 

But  who  shall  so  forecast  the  years, 
And  find  in  loss  a  gain  to  match  .'' 
Or  reach  a  hand  thro'  time  to  catch 

The  far-off  interest  of  tears  } 

Let  Love    clasp  Grief   lest  both  be 

drown'd 

Let  darkness  keep  her  raven  gloss  : 

Ah,  sweeter  to  be  drunk  with  loss, 

To    dance   with    death,   to    beat    the 

ground. 

Than   that   the   victor   Hours   should 
scorn 
The  long  result  of  love,  and  boast, 
"Behold  the  man  that  loved  and  lost 

But  all  he  was  is  overworn." 


i8o 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


II. 


Old  Yew,  which  graspest  at  the  stones 
That  name  the  underlying  dead, 
Thy  fibres  net  the  dreamless  head, 

Thy  roots  are  wrapt  about  the  bones. 

The  seasons  bring  the  flower  again, 
And  bring  the  firstling  to  the  flock; 
And  in  the  dusk  of  thee,  the  clock 

Beats  out  the  little  lives  of  men. 

O  not  for  thee  the  glow,  the  bloom, 
Who  changest  not  in  any  gale, 
Nor  branding  summer  suns  avail 

To  touch  thy  thousand  years  of  gloom  : 

And  gazing  on  thee,  sullen  tree, 
Sick  for  thy  stubborn  hardihood, 
I  seem  to  fail  from  out  my  blood 

And  grow  incorporate  into  thee. 

III. 

O  SORROW,  cruel  fellowship, 

O  Priestess  in  the  vaults  of  Death, 
O  sweet  and  bitter  in  a  breath. 

What  whispers  from  thy  lying  lip  ? 

"  The  stars,"  she  whispers,  "  blindly 
run  ; 
A  web  is  wov'n  across  the  sky : 
From  out  waste  places  comes  a  cry, 

And  murmurs  from  the  dying  sun  : 

"  And  all  the  phantom,  Nature,  stands, 
"With  all  the  music  in  her  tone, 
A  hollow  echo  of  my  own, — 

A  hollow  form  with  empty  hands." 

And  shall  I  take  a  thing  so  blind, 
Embrace  her  as  my  natural  good ; 
Or  crush  her,  like  a  vice  of  blood, 

Upon  the  threshold  of  the  mind .'' 


To  Sleep  I  give  my  powers  away  ; 

My  will  is  bondsman  to  the  dark ; 

I  sit  within  a  helmless  bark. 
And  with  my  heart  I  muse  and  say  : 


O  heart,  how  fares  it  with  thee  now, 
That   thou   shouldst  fail    from   thy 

desire. 
Who  scarcely  darest  to  inquire 

"  What  is  it  makes  me  beat  so  low  ?  " 

Something  it  is  which  thou  hast  lost, 
Some    pleasure    from     thine    early 

years. 
Break,  thou   deep   vase   of  chilling 
tears. 
That  grief  hath  shaken  into  frost ! 

Such  clouds  of  nameless  trouble  cross 
All  night  below  the  darken'd  eyes  ; 
With  morning  wakes  the  will,  and 
cries, 

"  Thou  shalt  not  be  the  fool  of  loss." 


I  SOMETIMES  hold  it  half  a  sin 
To  put  in  words  the  grief  I  feel ; 
For  words,  like  Nature,  half  reveal 

And  half  conceal  the  Soul  within. 

But,  for  the  unquiet  heart  and  brain, 
A  use  in  measured  language  lies; 
The  sad  mechanic  exercise. 

Like  dull  narcotics,  numbing  pain. 

In  words,  like  weeds,  I'll  wrap  me  o'er, 
Like    coarsest    clothes   against   the 

cold; 
But  that  large  grief  which  these  en- 
fold 
Is  given  in  outline  and  no  more. 


VI. 


One  writes,   that  "  Other   friends   re- 
main," 
That    "  Loss    is    common    to    the 

race," — 
And  common  is  the  commonplace, 
And  vacant  chaff  well  meant  for  grain. 

That  loss  is  common  would  not  make 
My  own  less  bitter,  rather  more  : 
Too  common  !    Never  morning  wor* 

To  evening,  but  some  heart  did  break 


IN  MEMORTAM. 


181 


O  father,  wheresoe'er  thou  be,  . 

Who  plcdgest  now  thy  gallant  son; 

A  shot,  ere  half  thy  draught  be  done, 
Hath  still'd  the  life  that  beat  from  thee. 

O  mother,  praying  God  will  save 
Thy  sailor, — while  thy  head  is  bow'd. 
His  heavy-shotted  hammock-shroud 

Drops  in  his  vast  and  wandering  grave. 

Ye  know  no  more  than  I  who  wrought 
At  that  last  hour  to  please  him  well ; 
Who  mused  on  all  I  had  to  tell, 

And  something  written,  something 
thought. 

Expecting  still  his  advent  home ; 
And  ever  met  him  on  his  way 
With  wishes,  thinking,  here  'to-day. 

Or  here  to-morrow  will  he  come. 

O  somewhere,  meek  unconscious  dove, 
That  sittest  ranging  golden  hair ; 
And  glad  to  find  thyself  so  fair, 

Poor  child,  that  waitest  for  thy  love  ! 

For  now  her  father's  chimney  glows 

In  expectation  of  a  guest 

And  thinking  "  This  will  please  him 
best," 
She  takes  a  ribbon  or  a  rose  ; 

For  he  will  see  them  on  to-night ; 

And  with  the  thought  her  color 
burns ; 

And,  having  left  the  glass,  she  turns 
Once  more  to  set  a  ringlet  right ; 

And,  even  when  she  turn'd,  the  curse 
Had  fallen,  and  her  future  lord 
Was  drown'd  in  passing  thro'  the 
ford, 

Or  kill'd  in  falling  from  his  horse. 

O  what  to  her  shall  be  the  end  ? 
And  what  to  me  remains  of  good 
To  her,  perpetual  maidenhood, 

And  unto  me  no  second  friend. 

VII.      \]^  ^ 

Dark  house,  by  which  once  more  I 
stand 
Here  in  the  long  unlovely  street. 


Doors,  where  my  heart  was  used  to 
beat 
So  quickly,  waiting  for  a  hand, 

A  hand  that  can  be  clasp'd  no  more,— * 
Behold  me,  for  I  cannot  sleep, 
And  like  a  guilty  thing  I  creep 

At  earliest  morning  to  the  door. 

He  is  not  here  ;  but  far  away 
The  noise  of  life  begins  again. 
And  ghastly  thro'  the  drizzlmg  rain 

On  the  bald  street  breaks  the  blank 
day."~^ 

VIII. 

A  HAPPY  lover  who  has  come 

To  look  on  her  that  loves  hin*.  well. 
Who  'lights  and  rings  the  gateway 
bell, 
And  learns  her    gone  and  far  from 
home; 

He  saddens,  all  the  magic  light 
Dies  off  at  once  from  bower  and  hall. 
And  all  the  place  is  dark,  and  all 

The  chambers  emptied  of  delight; 

So  find  I  every  pleasant  spot 
In  which  we  two  were  wont  to  meet. 
The    field,  the    chamber,  and    the 
street. 

For  all  is  dark  where  thou  art  not. 

Yet  as  that  other,  wandering  there 
In  those  deserted  walks,  may  find 
A  flower  beat  with  rain  and  wind, 

Which  once  she  foster'd  up  with  care ; 

So  seems  it  in  my  deep  regret, 

0  my  forsaken  heart,  with  thee 
And  this  poor  flower  of  poesy 

Which  little  cared  for  fades  not  yet. 

But  since  it  pleased  a  vanish'd  eye, 

1  go  to  plant  it  on  his  tomb. 
That  if  it  can  it  there  may  bloom. 

Or  dying,  there  at  least  may  die. 

IX. 

Fair  ship,  that  from  the  Italian  shore 
Sailest  the  placid  ocean-plains 
With    my  lost    Arthur's  loved  re. 
mains, 
Spread  thy  full  wings,  and  waft  him 
o'er.  * 


l82 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


So  draw  him  home  to  those  that  mourn 
In  vain ;  a  favorable  speed 
Ruffle  thy  mirror'd  mast,  any  urn. 

Thro'  prosperous  floods  his  hold  lead 

All  night  no  ruder  air  perplex 

Thy    sliding    keel,    till     Phosphor, 

bright 
As  our  pure  love,  thro'  early  light 

Shall  glimmer  on  the  dewy  decks. 

Sphere  all  your  lights  around,  above  ; 
Sleep,   gentle    heavens,   before  the 

prow ; 
Sleep,  gentle  winds,  as  he    sleeps 
now, 
My  friend,  the  brother  of  my  love  ; 

My  Arthur,  whom  I  shall  not  see 
Till  all  my  widow'd  race  be  run ; 
Dear  as  the  mother  to  the  son. 

More  than  my  brothers  are  to  me. 


I  HEAR  the  noise  about  thy  keel ; 

I  hear  the  bell  struck  in  the  night ; 

I  see  the  cabin-window  bright; 
I  see  the  sailor  at  the  wheel. 

Thou  bringest  the  sailor  to  his  wife, 
And    travel  I'd    men    from     foreign 

lands ; 
And  letters  unto  trembling  hands  ; 

And,  thy  dark  freight,  a  vanish'd  life. 

So  bring  him:  we  have  idle  dreams: 
This  look  of  quiet  flatters  thus 
Our  home-bred  fancies :  O  to  us, 

The  fools  of  habit,  sweeter  seems 

To  rest  beneath  the  clover  sod. 

That   takes   the   sunshine    and   the 

rains, 
Or  where  the  kneeling  hamlet  drains 

The  chalice  of  the  grapes  of  God ; 

Than  if  with  thee  the  roaring  wells 
Should  gulf   him    fathom    deep    in 

brine ; 
And  hands  so  often  clasp'd  in  mine 

Should  toss  with  tangle  and  with  shells. 

X,.     v/ 
Calm  is  the  morn  without  a  sound 
Calm  as  t(f  suit  a  calmer  grief. 


And  only  thro'  the  faded  leaf 
The  chestnut  pattering  to  the  ground : 

Calm  and   deep   peace  on  this  high 
wol^l 
And  on  these  dews  that  drench  the 

furze, 
And  all  the  silvery  gossamers 
That  twinkle  into  green  and  gold : 

Cajm  and  still  light  on  yon  great  plain 
That  sweeps  with  all  its    autumn 

bowers, 
And  crowded  farms  and  lessening 
towers. 
To  mingle  with  the  bounding  main  ; 

Calm  and  deep  peace  in  this  wide-aii^- 
These  leaves  that  redden  to  the  fall ; 
And  in  my  heart,  if  calm  at  all, 

If  any  calm,  a  calm  despair ; 

Calm  on  the  seas,  and  silver  sleep, 
And  waves  that  sway  themselves  in 

rest, 
And  dead  calm  in  that  noble  breast 
Which   heaves   but  with  the  heaving 
deep. 

XII. 

Lo,  as  a  dove  when  up  she  springs 
To  bear  thro'  Heaven  a  tale  of  woe, 
Some  dolorous  message  knit  below 

The  wild  pulsation  of  her  wings; 

Like  her  I  go;  I  cannot  stay; 
I  leave  this  mortal  ark  behind, 
A  weight  of  nerves  without  a  mind, 

And  leave  the  cliffs,  and  haste  away 

O'er  ocean-mirrors  rounded  large, 
And   reach   the   glow    of    southern 

skies, 
And  see  the  sails  at  a  distance  rise, 

And  linger  weeping  on  the  marge, 

And   saying,    "Comes    he    thus,   my 
friend  ? 
Is  this  the  end  of  all  my  care  ? " 
And  circle  moaning  in  the  air : 

"  Is  this  the  end ?     Is  this  the  end?" 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


183 


And  forward  dart  again,  and  play 
About  the  prow,  and  back  return 
To  where  the  body  sits,  and  learn, 

That  I  have  been  an  hour  away. 

XIII. 

Tears  of  the  widower,  when  he  sees 
A  late-lost  form  that  sleep  reveals. 
And  moves  his  doubtful  arms,  and 
feels 

Her  place  is  empty,  fall  like  these  ; 

Which  weep  a  loss  forever  new, 
A  void  where  heart    on   heart  re- 
posed ; 
And,  where  warm  hands  have  prest 
and  clos'd. 
Silence,  till  I  be  silent  too. 

Which  weep  the  comrade  of  my  choice 
An  awful  thought,  a  life  removed, 
The  human-hearted  man  I  loved, 

A  Spirit,  not  a  breathing  voice. 

Come    Time,   and    teach    me,   many 
years, 
I  do  not  suffer  in  a  dream  ; 
For  now  so  strange  do  these  things 
seem 
Mine  eyes  have  leisure  for  their  tears ; 

My  fancies  time  to  rise  on  wii 

And  glance  about  the  approaching 

sails, 
As  tho'  they  brought  but  merchants' 
bales. 
And  not  the  burthen  that  they  bring. 


If  one  should  bring  mc  this  report, 
That  thou  hadst  touch'd  the  land  to- 
day, 
And  I  went  down  unto  the  quay. 

And  found  thee  lying  in  the  port ; 

And  standing,  muffled  round  with  woe, 
Should  see  thy  passengers  in  rank 
Come    stepping    lightly   down    the 
plank. 

And  beckoning  unto  those  they  know ; 

And  if  alpng  with  these  should  come 
The  man  I  held  as  half  divine; 


Should    strike   a    sudden    hand  in 
mine, 
And  ask  a  thousand  things  of  home ; 

And  I  should  tell  him  all  my  pain, 
And  how  my  life   had  droop'd  of 

late, 
And  he  should  sorrow  o'er  my  state 

And  marvel  what  possess'd  my  brain ; 

And  I  perceived  no  touch  of  change, 
No  hint  of  death  in  all  his  frame, 
But  found  him  all  in  all  the  same, 

I  should  not  feel  it  to  be  strange. 

XV. 

To-NIGHT  the  winds  begin  to  rise 
And  roar  from  yonder  dropping  day ; 
The  last  red  leaf  is  whirl'd  away, 

The  rooks  are  blown  about  the  skies ; 

The  forest  crack'd,  the  waters  curl'd, 
The  cattle  huddled  on  the  lea; 
And  wildly  dash'd  on  tower  and  tree 

The  sunbeam  strikes  along  the  world: 

And  but  for  fancies,  which  aver 
That  all  thy  motions  gently  pass 
Athwart  a  plane  of  molten  glass, 

I  scarce  could  brook  the  strain  and 
stir 

That  makes  the  .^arren  branches  lOud ; 
And  but  for  fear  it  is  not  so. 
The  wild  unrest  that  lives  in  woe 

Would  dote  and  pore  on  yonder  cloud 

That  rises  upward  always  higher, 
And  onward  drags  a  laboring  breast, 
And  topples  round  the  dreary  west, 

A  looming  bastion  fringed  with  fire. 


What  words  are   these    have  fall'n 
from  me  ? 
Can  calm  despair  and  wild  unrest 
Be  tenants  of  a  single  breast. 

Or  sorrow  such  a  changeling  be  ? 

Or  doth  she  only  seem  to  take 
The    touch  of  change   in  calm  or 

storm ; 
But  knows  no  more    of    transient 
form 
In  her  deep  self,  than  some  dead  lake 


i84 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


That  holds  the  shadow  of  a  lark 
Piling  in  the  shadow  of  a  heaven? 
Or  has  the  shock,  so  harshly  given, 

Confused  me  like  the  unhappy  bark 

That  strikes  by  night  a  craggy  shelf, 
And  staggers  blindly  ere  she  sink? 
And  stunn'd  me  from  my  power  to 
think 

And  all  my  knowledge  of  myself; 

And  made  me  that  delirious  man 
Whose  fancy  fuses  old  and  new. 
And  flashes  into  false  and  true, 

And  mingles  all  without  a  plan  ? 


Thou  comest,  much  wept  for :  such  a 
breeze 
Compell'd  thy  canvas,  and  my  prayer 
Was  as  the  whisper  of  an  air 

To  breathe  thee  over  lonely  seas. 

For  I  in  spirit  saw  thee  move 

Thro'  circles  of  the  bounding  sky, 
Week  after  week :  the  days  go  by; 

Come  quick,  thou  bringest  all  I  love. 

Henceforth,    wherever     thou     may'st 
roam, 
My  blessing,  like  a  line  of  light. 
Is  on  the  waters  day  and  night. 

And  like  a  beacon  guards  thee  home. 

So  may  whatever  tempest  mars 
Mid-ocean  spare  thee,  sacred  bark ; 
And  balmy  drops  in  summer  dark 

Slide  from  the  bosom  of  the  stars. 

So  kind  an  office  hath  been  done. 
Such  precious  relics  brought  by  thee ; 
The  dust  of  him  I  shall  not  see 

Till  all  my  widow'd  race  be  run. 


'Tis  well;    'tis  something;    we  may 
stand 
Where  he  in  English  earth  is  laid. 
And  from  his  ashes  may  be  made 

The  violet  of  his  native  land. 

'Tis  little;  but  it  looks  in  truth 
As  if  the  quiet  bones  were  blest 
Among  familiar  names  to  rest 

And  in  the  places  of  his  youth. 


Come  then,  pure  hands,  and  bear  the 
head 
That  sleeps  or  wears  the  mask  of 

sleep, 
And  come,  whatever  loves  to  weep. 
And  hear  the  ritual  of  the  dead. 

Ah  yet,  ev'n  yet,  if  this  might  be, 
I,  falling  on  his  faithful  heart, 
Would   breathing   through  his  lips 
impart 

The  life  that  almost^  dies  in  me  ; 

That  dies  not,  but  endures  with  pain, 
And  slowly  forms  the  firmer  mind, 
Treasuring  the  look  it  cannot  find. 

The  words  that  are  not  heard  again. 

XIX. 

The  Danube  to  the  Severn  gave 
The   darken'd   heart    that   beat   no 

more; 
They  laid  him  by  the  pleasant  shore, 

And  in  the  hearing  of  the  wave. 

There  twice  a  day  the  Severn  fills ; 
The  salt  sea-water  passes  by. 
And  hushes  half  the  babbling  Wye, 

And  makes  a  silence  in  the  hills. 

The  Wye  is  hush'd  nor  moved  along. 
And  hush'd  by  deepest  grief  of  all, 
When  fill'd  with   tears  that  cannot 
fall, 

I  brim  with  sorrow  drowning  song. 

The  tide  flov;s  down,  the  wave  again 
Is  vocal  in  its  wooded  walls  ; 
My  deeper  anguish  also  falls 

And  I  can  speak  a  little  then. 


The  lesser  griefs  that  may  be  said. 
That  breathe  a  thousand  tender  vows, 
Are  but  as  servants  in  a  house 

Where  lies  the  master  newly  dead  ; 

Who  speak  their  feeling  as  it  is, 
And    weep    the  fulness    from  the 

mind : 
'Tt  will  be  hard,"  they  say,  "  to  find 

Another  service  such  hs  this." 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


'S5 


My  lighter  moods  are  like  to  these, 
That  out  of  words  a  comfort  win ; 
But  there  are  other  griefs  within, 

And  tears  that  at  their  fountain  freeze : 

For  by  the  hearth  the  children  sit 
Cold  in  that  atmosphere  of  Death, 
And   scarce    endure    to    draw  the 
breath, 

Or  like  to  noiseless  phantoms  flit : 

But  open  converse  is  there  none, 
So  much  the  vital  spirits  sink 
To  see  the  vacant  chair,  and  think, 

*♦  How  good !   how  kind !    and  he  is 
gone," 

XXI. 

\  SING  to  him  that  rests  below, 
And,  since  the  grasses  round  me 

wave, 
I  take  the  grasses  of  the  grave, 

And  make  them  pipes  whereon  to  blow. 

The  traveller  hears  mc  now  and  then, 
And    sometimes    harshly    will    he 

speak : 
"  This  fellow  would  make  weakness 
weak. 
And  melt  the  waxen  hearts  of  men." 

Another  answers,  "  Let  him  be. 
He  loves  to  make  parade  of  pain, 
That  with  his  piping  he  may  gain 

The  praise  that  comes  to  constancy." 

A  third  is  wroth.     Is  this  an  hour 
For  private  sorrow's  barren  song, 
When  more  and  more  the  people  j 
throng 

The  chairs  and  thrones  of  civil  power  ? 

'*  A  time  to  sicken  and  to  swoon, 
When    Science    reaches    forth  her 

arms 
To  feel  from  world  to  world,  and 
charms 
Her  secret  from  the  latest  moon  ? " 

Behold,  ye  speak  an  idle  thing : 
Ye  never  knew  the  sacred  dust ; 
I  do  but  sing  because  I  must, 

And  pipe  but  as  the  linnets  sing : 


And  one  is  glad ;  her  note  is  gay. 
For  now  her  little  ones  have  ranged  ; 
And  one  is  sad;  her  note  is  changed, 

Because  her  brood  is  stol'n  away. 


The  path  by  which  we  twain  did  go, 
Which  led  by  tracts  that  pleased  us 

well. 
Thro'  four  sweet  years  arose  and  fell. 
From  flower  to  flower,  from  snow  to 
snow : 

And  we  with  singing  cheer'd  the  way. 
And  crown'd  with  all  the  season  lent. 
From  April  on  to  April  went. 

And  glad  at  heart  from  May  to  M?y : 

But  where  the  path  we  walk'd  began 
To  slant  the  fifth  autumnal  slope, 
As  we  descended,  following  Hope, 

There  sat  the  Shadow  fear'd  of  man; 

Who  broke  our  fair  companionship, 
And  spread  his  mantle  dark  and  cold, 
And  wrapt  thee  formless  in  the  fold. 

And  dull'd  the  murmur  on  thy  lip. 

And  bore  thee  where  I  could  not  see 
Nor  follow,  tho'  I  walk  in  haste, 
And  think  that  somewhere  in  the 
waste 

The  Shadow  sits  and  waits  for  me. 

XXIII. 

Now,  sometimes  in  my  sorrow  shut, 
Or  breaking  into  song  by  fits. 
Alone,  alone,  to  where  he  sits, 

The  Shadow  cloak'd  from  head  to  foct, 

Who  keeps  the  keys  of  all  the  creeds, 
I  wander,  often  falling  lame, 
And  looking  back  to  whence  I  came. 

Or  on  to  where  the  pathway  leads  ; 

And    crying,     "  How    changed    from 
where  it  ran 
Thro'  lands  where  not  a  leaf  was 

dumb ; 
But  all  the  lavish  hills  would  hum 
The  murmur  of  a  happy  Pan  : 

"  When  each  by  turns  was  guide  to 

each. 
And  Fancy  light  from  Fancy  caughl^ 


i86 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


And  Thought  leapt  out  to  wed  with 
Thought 
Ere   Thought   could   wed   itself    with 
Speech ; 

""And  all  we  met  was  fair  and  good, 
And  all  was  good  that  Time  could 

bring, 
And  ail  the  secret  of  the  Spring 

Moved  in  the  chambers  of  the  blood  ; 

"  And  many  an  old  philosophy 
On  Argive  heights  divinely  sang, 
And  round  us  all  the  thicket  rang 

To  many  a  flute  of  Arcady." 

XXIV. 

And  was  the  day  ot  my  delight 
As  sure  and  perfect  as  I  say  ? 
The  very  source  and  fount  of  Day 

Is  dash'd    with    wandering     isles  of 
night. 

If  all  was  good  and  fair  we  met, 
This  earth  had  been  the  Paradise 
It  never  look'd  to  human  eyes 

Since  Adam  left  his  garden  yet. 

And  is  it  that  the  haze  of  grief 

Makes    former    gladness    loom    so 

great  ? 
The  lowness  of  the  present  state, 

That  sets  the  past  in  this  relief } 

Or  that  the  past  will  always  win 
A  glory  from  its  being  far : 
And  orb  into  the  perfect  star 

"We  saw  not,  when  we  moved  therein  ? 


I  KNOW  that  this  was  Life, — the  track 
Whereon  with  equal  feet  we  fared ; 
And  then,  as  now,  the  day  prepared 

The  daily  burden  for  the  back. 

But  this  it  was  that  made  me  move 
As  light  as  carrier-birds  in  air  ; 
I  loved  the  weight  I  had  to  bear, 

Because  I  needed  help  of  love ; 

Nor  could  I  weary,  heart  or  limb. 
When  mighty  Love  would  cleave  in 

twain 
The  lading  of  a  single  pain, 

And  part  it,  giving  half  to  him. 


XXVI. 

Still  onward  winds  the  weary  way; 
I  with  it  ;  for  I  long  to  prove 
No  lapse  of  moons  can  canker  Love, 

Whatever  fickle  tongues  may  say. 

And  if  that  eye  which  watches  guilt 
And  goodness,  and  hath  power  to  see 
Within  the  green  the  moulder'd  tree, 

And  towers  fall'n  as  soon  as  built, — 

O,  if  indeed  that  eye  foresee 
Or  see  (in  Him  is  no  before) 
In  more  of  life  true  life  no  more 

And  Love  the  indifference  to  be, 

Then  might  I  find,  ere  yet  the  morn 
Breaks  hither  over  Indian  seas. 
That  shadow  waiting  with  the  keys, 

To  shroud  me  from  my  proper  scorn. 

XXVII,, 

I  ENVY  not  in  any  moods 
The  captive  void  of  noble  rage, 
The  linnet  born  within  the  cage, 

That  never  knew  the  summer  woods ; 

I  envy  not  the  beast  that  takes 
His  license  in  the  field  of  time, 
Unfetter'd  by  the  sense  of  crime, 

To  whom  a  conscience  never  wakes  : 

Nor,  what  may  count  itself  as  ble?t, 
The  heart  that  never  plighted  troth. 
But  stagnates  in  the  weeds  of  slotb- 

Nor  any  want-begotten  rest. 

I  hold  it  true,  whate'er  befall ; 
I  feel  it,  when  I  sorrow  most : 
'.JMsbetter  to  have  loved  aufil^t— -— 

,IJ]h^Mfrefverf6  have  loved  at  all. 

XXVI /I. 

,The  time  draws    near  the  birth  of 
Christ ; 

The  moon  is  hid  ;  the  night  is  still ; 

The  Christmas  bells  from  hill  to  hill 
Answer  each  other  in  the  mist. 
Four  voices  of  four  hamlets  round. 

From  far  and  near,   on  mead  and 
moor. 

Swell  out  and  fail,  as  if  a  door 
Were  shut  between  me  and  the  sound  i 


m  MEMORIAM. 


187 


Each  voice  four  changes  on  the  wind, 
That  now  dilate,  and  now  decrease, 
Peace  and  good-will,  good-will  and 
peace, 

Peace  and  good-will,  to  all  mankind. 

This  year  I  slept  and  woke  with   pain, 
I  almost  wish'd  no  more  to  wake, 
And  that  my  hold  on  life  would  break 

Before  I  heard  those  bells  again : 

But  they  my  troubled  spirit  rule, 
For  they  controll'd  me  when  a  boy; 
They  bring  me  sorrow  touch'd  with 

joy. 

The  merry,  merry  bells  of  Yule. 


With  such  compelling  cause  to  grieve 
As  daily  vexes  household  peace, 
And  chains  regret  to  his  decease,     -^ 

How  dare  we  keep  our  Christmas-eve 

Which  brings  no  more  a  welcome  guest 
To  enrich  the  threshold  of  the  night 
With  shower'd  largess  of  delight, 

In  dance  and  song  and  game  and  jest. 

Yet  go,  and  while  the  holly-boughs 
Entwine  the  cold  baptismal  font, 
Make  one  wreath  more  for  Use  and 
Wont 

That  guard  the  portals  of  the  house  ; 

Old  sister  of  a  day  gone  by. 

Gray  nurses,  loving  nothing  new ; 
Why  should  thgy  miss  their  yearly 
due 

Before  their  time  ?     They  too  will  die. 


With  trembling  fingers  did  we  weave 
The    holly    round     the     Christmas 

hearth  ; 
A  rainy  cloud  possessM  the  earth, 

And  sadly  fell  on  Christmas-eve. 

At  our  old  pastimes  in   he  hall 

We  gamboll'd,  making  vain  pretence 
Of  gladness,  with  an  awful  sense 

Of  one  mute  Shadow  watching  all. 


We   paused :  the  winds  were  in    the 
beech  ; 
We  heard  them  sweep  the   winter 

land; 
And  in  a  circle  hand-in-hand 
Sat  silent,  looking  each  at  each. 

Then  echo-like  our  voices  rang; 
We  sung  tho'  every  eye  was  dim, 
A  merry  song  we  sang  with  him 

Last  year,   impetuously  we  sang  : 

We  ceased  :  a  gentler  feeling  crept 
Upon  us  :  surely  rest  is  meet  : 
"They  rest,"  we  said,  "their  sleep 
is  sweet," 

And  silence  follow'd,  and  we  wept. 

Our  voices  took  a  higher  range  ; 
Once  more  we  sang  :  "  They  do  not 

die 
Nor  lose  their  mortal  sympathy, 
Nor    change    to    us,    although    they 
change ; 

"  Rapt  from  the  fickle  and  the  frail 
With  gather'd  power,  yet  the  same. 
Pierces  the  keen  seraphic  flame 

From  orb  to  orb,  from  veil  to  veil.'' 

Rise,  happy  morn,  rise,  holy  morn, 
Draw    forth  the  cheerful  day    £rom 

night  • 
O   father,  touch  the  east,  and  light 
The  light  that  shone  when  Hope  was 
born. 

XXXI. 

When  Lazarus  left  his  charnel-cave, 
And  home  to  Mary's  house  return'd, 
Was  this  demanded, — if  he  yearn'd 

To  hear  her  weeping  by  his  grave  1 

"  Where  wert  thou,  brother,  those  four 
days  I " 
There  lives  no  record  of  reply, 
Which  telling  what  it  is  to  die 

Had  surely  added  praise  to  praise. 

From  every  house  the  neighbors  met, 
The  streets  were  fill'd  with  joyful 

sound, 
A  solemn  gladness  even  crown'd 

The  purple  brows  of  Olivet 


1 88 


IN  MEMORIAM, 


Behold  a  man  raised  up  by  Christ ! 

The  rest  remaineth  unreveal'd ; 

He  told  it  not ;  or  something  seal'd 
The  lips  of  that  Evangelist. 


Her  eyes  are  homes  of  silent  prayer, 
Nor  other  thought  her  mind  admits 
But,  he  was  dead,  and  there  he  sits, 

And  he  that  brought  him  back  is  there. 

Then  one  deep  love  doth  supersede 
All  other,  when  her  ardent  gaze 
Roves  from  the  living  brother's  face. 

And  rests  upon  the  Life  indeed. 

All  subtle  thought,  all  curious  fears, 
Borne  down  by  gladness  so  complete. 
She  bows,  she  bathes  the  Saviour's 
feet 

With  costly  spikenard  and  with  tears. 

Thrice  blest  whose  lives  are  faithful 
prayers, 
Whose  loves  in  higher  love  endure  ; 
What  souls    possess  themselves  so 
pure, 
Or  is  there  blessedness  like  theirs  ? 

XXXIII. 

O  THOU  that  after  toil  and  storm 
Mayst  seem  to  have  reach'd  a  purer 

air. 
Whose  faith  has  centre  everywhere. 

Nor  cares  to  fix  itself  to  form. 

Leave  thou  thy  sister,  when  she  prays> 
Her  early  Heaven,  her  happy  views  5 
Nor  thou  with  shadow'd  hint  con- 
fuse 

A  life  that  leads  melodious  days. 

Her  faith  thro'  form  is  pure  as  thine, 
Her  hands  are  quicker  unto  good  : 
O,  sacred  be  the  flesh  and  blood 

To  which  she  links  a  truth  uivine ! 

See  thou,  that  contest  reason  ripe 
In  holding  by  the  law  within. 
Thou  fail  not  in  a  world  of  sin, 

And  ev'n  foi-  want  of  such  a  type. 

J  XXXIV. 

My  own  dim  life  should  teach  me  this, 
That  life  shall  live  forevermore, 


Else  earth  is  darkness  at  the  core, 
And  dust  and  ashes  all  that  is: 

This  round  of  green,  this  orb  of  flame. 
Fantastic  beauty  ;  such  as  lurks 
In  some  wild  Poet,  when  he  works 

Without  a  conscience  or  an  aim. 

What  then  were  God  to  such  as  I  ? 

'Twere  hardly  worth  my  while   to 
choose 

Of  things  all  mortal,  or  to  use 
A  little  patience  ere  I  die ; 

'Twere  best  at  once  to  sink  to  peace, 
Like    birds    the    charming    serpent 

draws. 
To  drop  head  foremost  in  the  jaws 

Of  vacant  darkness,  and  to  cease. 


Yet  if  some  voice  that  man  could  trust 
Should    murmur   from    the  narrow 

house, 
"  The  cheeks    drop    in ;  the    body 
bows ;  " 
Man  dies  :  nor  is  there  hope  in  dust :  " 

Might  I  not  say,  "  Yet  even  here. 
But  for  one  hour,  O  Love,  I  strive 
To  keep  so  sweet  a  thing  alive  ? " 

But  I  should  turn  mine  ears  and  hear 

The  meanings  of  the  homeless  sea, 
The  sound  of  streams  that  swift  or 

slow 
Draw  down  ^Eonian  hills,  and  sow 

The  dust  of  continents  to  be  ; 

And  Love  would  answer  with  a  sigh, 
"  The  sound  of  that  forgetful  shore 
Will  change  my  sweetness  more  and 
more, 

Half-dead  to  know  that  I  shall  die." 

O  me  !  what  profits  it  to  put 

An  idle  case  }     If  Death  were  seen 
At  first  as  Death,  Love  had  not  beei^ 

Or  been  in  narrowest  working  shut, 

Mere  fellowship  of  sluggish  moods, 
Or  in  his  coarsest  Satyr-shape 
Had  bruised  the   herb  and  crush'd 
the  grape. 

And  bask'd  and  batten'd  in  the  woods. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


189 


XXXVI. 

Tho'  truths  in  manhood  darkly  join, 
Deep-seated  in  our  mystic  frame, 
AVe  yield  all  blessing  to  the  name 

Of  Him  that  made  them  current  coin 

For  Wisdom  dealt  with  mortal  powers, 
Where  truth  in  closest  words  shall 

fail. 
When  truth  embodied  in  a  tale 

Shall  enter  in  at  lowly  doors. 

And  so  the   Word  had  breath,   and 
wrought 
With  human    hands  the    creed  of 

creeds 
In  loveliness  of  perfect  deeds. 
More  strong  than  all  poetic  thought ; 

Which    he  may  read  that  binds  the 
sheaf, 
Or  builds  the  house,  or  digs  the  grave. 
And  those  wild  eyes  that  watch  the 
wave 
In  roarings  round  the  coral  reef. 

B  XXXVII. 

PUrania  speaks  with  darken'd  brow ; 
K    "  Thou  pratest  here  where   thou  art 
*^        least ; 

This  faith  has  many  a  purer  priest. 
And  many  an  abler  voice  than  thou. 

•*  Go  down  beside  thy  native  rill, 
On  thy  Parnassus  set  thy  feet. 
And  hear  thy  laurel  whisper  sweet 

About  the  ledges  of  the  hill." 

And  my  Melpomene  replies, 

A  touch  of  shame  upon  her  cheek  : 
"  I  am  not  worthy  ev'n  to  speak 

Of  thy  prevailing  mysteries  ; 

**  For  I  am  but  an  earth  Muslye, 
And  owning  but  a   ittle  art 
To  lull  with  song  an  aching  heart, 

And  render  human  love  his  dues  ; 

"  But  brooding  on  the  dear  one  dead, 
And  all  he  said  of  things  divine, 
(And  dear  to  me  as  sacred  wine 

To  dying  lips  is  all  he  said,) 

**  I  murmur'd,  as  I  came  along. 
Of  comfort  clasp'd  in  truth  reveal'd  j 


And  loiter'd  in  the  Master's  field. 
And  darken'd  sanctities  with  song." 

XXXVIII. 

With  weary  steps  I  loiter  on, 
Tho'  always  under  alter'd  skies 
The  purple  from  the  distance  dies, 

My  prospect  and  horizon  gone. 

No  joy  the  blowing  season  gives, 
The  herald  melodies  of  spring, 
But  in  the  songs  I  love  to  sing 

A  doubtful  gleam  of  solace  lives. 

If  any  care  for  what  is  here 

Survive  in  spirits  render'd  free, 
Then  are  these  songs  I  sing  of  thee 

Not  all  ungrateful  to  thine  ear. 

xxxix. 

Could  we  forget  the  widow'd  hour, 
And  look  on  Spirits  breathed  away, 
As  on  a  maiden  in  the  day 

When   first    she    wears    her    orange- 
flower  ! 

When  crown'd  with  blessing  she  doth 
rise 
To  take  her  latest  leave  of  home, 
And   hopes  and  light  regrets  that 
come 
Make  April  of  her  tender  eyes ; 

And  doubtful  joys  the  father  move, 
And  tears  are  on  the  mother's  face, 
As  parting  with  a  long  embrace 

She  enters  other  realms  of  love  : 

Her  office  there  to  rear,  to  teach, 
Becoming,  as  is  meet  and  fit, 
A  link  among  the  days,  to  knit 

The  generations  each  with  each ; 

And,  doubtless,  unto  thee  is  given 
A  life  that  bears  immortal  fruit 
In  such  great  offices  as  suit 

The  full-grown  energies  of  heaven. 

Ay  me,  the  difference  I  discern  ! 
How  often  shall  her  old  fireside 
Be  cheer'd  with  tidings  of  the  bridc^ 

How  often  she  herself  return, 


ipo 


TN  MEMORTAM. 


Aud  tell   them  all   they   would   have 
told, 
And  bring  her  babe,  and  make  her 

boast 
Till  even  those  that  miss'd  her  most 
Shall  count  new  things  as  dear  as  old  : 

But  thou  and  I  have  sha-ken  hands, 
Till  growing  winters  lay  me  low ; 
My  paths  are  in  the  fields  I  know, 

And  thine  in  undiscover'd  lands. 


Thy  spirit  ere  our  fatal  loss 

Did  ever  rise  from  high  to  higher  : 
As  mounts  the  heavenward  altar-fire. 

As  flies  the  lighter  thro'  the  gross. 

But    thou    art    turn'd    to   something 
strange. 
And  I  have  lost  the  Imks  that  bound 
Thy  changes  ;  here  upon  the  ground, 

No  more  partaker  of  thy  change. 

Deep  folly!  yet  that  this  could  be, — 
That   I    could   wmg  my  will   with 

might 
To  leap  the  grades  of  life  and  light, 

And  flash  at  once,  my  friend,  to  thee  ; 

For  tho'  my  nature  rarely  yields 
To  that  vague  fear  implied  in  death  ; 
Nor  shudders  at  the  gulfs  beneath, 

The  hovvlings  from  forgotton  fields  : 

Yet  oft  when  sundown  skirts  the  moor 

An  inner  trou'ble  I  behold, 

A  spectral  doubt  which  makes  me 
cold, 
That  I  shall  be  thy  mate  no  more, 

Tho'  following  with  an  upward  mind 
The  wonders  that  have  come  to  thee. 
Thro'  all  the  secular  to-be, 

But  evermore  a  life  behind. 

XLI. 

I  VEX  my  heart  with  fancies  dim  : 
He  still  outstript  mc  in  the  race  ; 
It  was  but  unity  of  place 

That  made  me   dream  I  rauk'd  with 
him. 


And  so  may  Place  retain  us  still, 
And  he  the  much-beloved  again, 
A  lord  of  large  experience,  train 

To  riper  growtii  ihe  mind  and  will : 

And  what  delights  can  equal  those 
That  stir  the  spirit's  inner  deeps, 
When  one  that  loves,  but  knows  not 
reaps 
A    truth    from    one    that    loves    and 
knows .'' 

XLII. 

If  Sleep  and  Death  be  truly  one. 
And  every  spirit's  folded' bloom 
Thro'  all  its  intervital  gloom 

In  some  long  trance  should   sluml.>er 
on ; 

Unconscious  of  the  sliding  hour, 
Bare  of  the  body,  might  it  last, 
And  silent  traces  of  the  past 

Be  all  the  color  of  the  flower : 

So  then  were  nothing  lost  to  man ; 
So  that  still  garden  of  the  souls 
In  many  a  figured  leaf  enrolls 

The  total  world  since  life  began ; 

And  love  will  last  as  pure  and  whole 
As  when  he  loved  mc  here  in  Time, 
And  at  the  spiritual  prime 

Revraken  with  the  dawning  soul. 


How  fares  it  with  the  happy  dead  ? 

For  here  the  man  is  more  and  more ; 

But  he  forgets  the  days  before 
God  shut  the  doorways  of  his  head. 

The  days  have  vanish'd,  tone  and  tint, 
And  yet  perhaps  the  hoarding  sense 
Gives  out  at  times  (he  knov.s  not 
whence) 

A  little  flash,  a  mystic  hint ; 

And  in  the  long  harmonious  years 
(If  Death  so  taste  Lethean  springs) 
May  some  dim  touch  of  earthly  things 

Surprise  thee  ranging  with  thy  peer^- 


3N  MEMORIAM. 


191 


If  such  a  dreamy  touch  should  fall, 
O    turn    thee    round,    resolve    the 

doubt ; 
My  guardian  angel  will  speak  out 

1 1  that  high  place,  and  tell  thee  all. 

XLIV. 

The  baby  new  to  earth  and  sky, 

What  time  his  tender  palm  is  prest 
Against  the  circle  of  the  breast, 

Has  never  thought  that  "  this  is  I :  " 

But  as  he  grows  he  gathers  much. 
And   learns   the    us     of  "  I,"  and 

"  me," 
And  finds  "  I  am  not  what  I  see, 

And  other  than  the  things  I  touch." 

So  rounds  he  to  a  separate  mind 
From   whence    clear    memory  may 

begin, 
As  thro'  the  frame  that  binds  him  in 

His  isolation  grows  defined. 

\  This  use  may  lie  in  blood  and  breath, 
■       Which  else  were   fruitless  of  their 
due, 
Had  man  to  learn  himself  anew, 
d  the  second  birth  of  Death. 


iBeyonc 


TWe  ranging  down  the  lower  track. 
The   path   we  came   by,  thorn  and 

flower, 
Is  shadow'd  by  the  growing  hour, 

'.  Lest  life  should  fail  in  looking  back. 

So  be  it:  there  no  shade  can  last 
In  that  deep  dawn  behind  the  tomb, 
But  clear  from  marge  to  marge  shall 
bloom 

The  eternal  landscape  of  the  past : 

A  lifelong  tract  of  time  reveal'd  ; 

The  fruitful  hours  of  still  increase ; 

Days  order'd  in  a  wealthy  peace. 
And  those  five  years  its  richest  field. 

Oh  Love,  thy  province  were  not  large, 
A  bounded  field,  nor  stretching  far; 
Look  also,  Love,  a  brooding  star, 

A  rosy  warmth  from  marge  10  marge. 


That   each,   who    seems   a   separate 
whole. 
Should  move  his  rounds,  and  fusing 

all 
The  skirts  of  self  again,  should  fall 
Remerging  in  the  general  Soul, 

Is  faith  as  vague  as  all  unsweet : 
Eternal  form  shall  still  divide 
The  eternal  soul  from  all  beside  ; 

And  I  shall  know  him  when  we  meet  : 

And  we  shall  sit  at  endless  feast, 
Enjoying  each  the  other's  good: 
What  vaster  dream  can  hit  the  mood 

Of  Love  on  earth  ?     He  seeks  at  least 

Upon  the  last  and  sharpest  height. 
Before  the  spirits  fade  away. 
Some    landing-place,  to    clasp  and 
say, 
"  Farewell !      We  lose    ourselves   in 
light " 

XLVII. 

If  these  brief  lays,  of  Sorrow  born, 
Were  taken  to  be  such  as  closed 
Grave  doubts  and  answers  here  pro- 
posed, 
Then  these  were  such  as  men  might 
scorn : 

Her  care  is  not  to  part  and  prove  ; 
She    takes,    when    harsher    moods 

remit. 
What  slender  shade  of  doubt 
flit, 
And  makes  it  vassal  unto  love  : 

And  hence,   indeed,   she   sports  with 
words. 
But  better  serves  a  wholesome  law, 
And  holds  it  sin  and  shame  to  draw 

The  deepest  measure  from  the  chords: 

Nor  dare  she  trust  a  larger  lay. 
But  rather  loosens  from  the  lip 
Short  swallow-flights  of  song,  that 
dip 

Their  wings  in  tears,  and   skim  away. 


1^2 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


XLVIII. 

From    art,    from    nature,    from    the 
schools, 
Let  random  influences  glance, 
Like  light  in  many  a  shiver'cl  lance 

That  breaks  about  the  dappled  pools  : 

The  lightest  wave  of  thought  shall  lisp, 
The  fancy's  tenderest  eddy  wreathe. 
The  slightest  air  of  song  shall 
breathe 

To  make  the  sullen  surface  crisp. 

And  look  thy  look,  and  go  thy  way. 
But  blame  not  thou  the  winds  that 

make 
The  seeming-wanton  ripple  break, 

The  tender-pencil'd  shadow  play. 

Beneath  all  fancied  hopes  and  fears, 
Ay  me !  the  sorrow  deepens  down. 
Whose     muffled    motions     blindly 
drown 

The  bases  of  my  life  in  tears. 

XLIX. 
Be  near  me  when'my  light  is  low, 
When  the    blood    creeps,   and   the 

nerves  prick 
And  tingle  ;  and  the  heart  is  sick, 
And  all  the  wheels  of  Being  slow. 

Be  near  me  when  the  sensuous  frame 
Is   rack'd  with  pangs  that  conquer 

trust : 
And  Time,  a  maniac  scattering  dust. 

And  Life,  a  Fjary  slinging  flame. 

Be  near  me  when  my  faith  is  dry, 
And  men  the  flies  of  latter  spring, 
That  lay  their  eggs,  and  sting  and 
sing, 

And  weave  their  petty  cells  and  die. 

''^e  near  me  when  I  fade  away, 
To  point  the  term  of  human  strife, 
And  on  the  low  dark  verge  of  life 

The  twilight  of  eternal  day. 


Po  we  indeed  desire  the  dead 

Should  still  be  near  us  at  our  side  ? 


Is  there  no  baseness  we  would  hide  \ 
No  inner  vileness  that  we  dread  t 

Should  he  for  whose  applause  I  strove, 
I  had  such  reverence  for  his  blame. 
See  with  clear  eye  some  hidden 
shame. 

And  I  be  lessen'd  in  his  love  ? 

I  wrong  the  grave  with  fears  untrue: 

Shall  love   be  .  blamed  for  want   of 

faith  ?  [Death 

There   must   be  wisdom  with  great 

The  dead  shall  look  me  thro'  and  thro*. 

Be  near  us  when  we  climb  or  fall : 
Ye  watch,  like  God,  the  rolling  hours 
With  larger  other  eyes  than  ours, 

To  make  allowance  for  us  all.  "> 

ir. 
I  CANNOT  love  thee  as  I  ought. 

For  love  reflects  the  thing  beloved; 
My    words    are    only    words,    and 
moved 
Upon  the  topmost  froth  of  thought. 

"  Yet  blame   not   thou   thy   plaintive 
song," 
The  Spirit  of  true  love  replied  ; 
*'  Thou  canst  not  move  me  from  thy 
side. 
Nor  human  frailty  do  me  wrong. 

'*  What  keeps  a  spirit  wholly  true 
To  that  ideal  which  he  bears  ? 
What  record  ?  not  the  sinless  years 

That    breathed    beneath    the    Syrian 
blue  : 

"  So  fret  not,  like  an  idle  girl, 

That  life  is  dash'd  with  flecks  of  sin, 
Abide :  thy  wreath  is  gather'd  in, 

When  Time  hath  sunder'd  shell  from 
pearl." 


How  many  a  father  have  I  seen, 
A  sober  man  among  his  boys, 
Whose   youth   was   full    of    foolish 
noise. 
Who  wears  his    manhood  hale    and 
green : 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


193 


And  dare  we  to  this  fancy  give, 

That   had    the    wild-oat    not    been 

sown, 
The    soil,  left   barren,    scarce    had 
grown 
The  grain  by  which  a  man  may  live  ? 

O,  if  we  held  the  doctrine  sound 
For  life  outliving  heats  of  youth, 
Yet  who  would  preach  it  as  a  truth 

To  those  that  eddy  round  and  round  ? 

Hold  thou  the  good:  define  it  well ; 
For  fear  divine  Philosophy 
Should  push  beyond  her  mark,  and 
be 

Procuress  to  the  Lords  of  Hell. 

^  Liri.     s/ 

O  YET  we  trust  that  somehow  good 
,  Will  be  the  final  goal  of  ill,      "" 

To  pangs  of  nature,  sins  of  will, 
Defects"t)f  doubt,  and  taints  of  blood 

^That  nothing,  walks  with  aimless  feet ; 
"  That  not  one  life  shall  be  destroy'd, 

Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void. 
When  God  hath  made  the  pile  com- 
plete; 

That  not  a  worm  is  cloveii  in_xain; 
"^  That  not  a  mothlvitTT  vam  desire 

Is  shrivell'd  in  a  fruitless  fire. 
Or  but  subserve.§  another's  gain.    . 

Behold-Wg-kEOwjnpt  anything,; 
fcan  but  trust  that  good  shall  fall 
At  last— far  off— at  last,  to  air,""" 

And  every  winter  change  to  spring. 

So  runs  my  dream :  but  what  am  I  ? 
An  infant  crying  in  the  night : 
An  infant  crying  for  the  light ; 

And  with  no  language  but  a  cry. 


The  wish,  that  of  the  living  whole  " 
No  life  may  fail  beyond  the  grave, 
Derives  it  not  from  what  we  have 

The  likest  God  within  the  souH. 

Are  God  and  Nature  then  at  strife, 
That  Nature  lends  such  evil  dreams  ?- 


So  careful  of  the  type  she  seems. 
So  careless  of  the  single  life ; 

That  I,  considering  everywhere 

Her  secret  meaning  in  her  deeds,  -— 
And  finding  the^t  of  fifty  seeds  ^ 

She  often  brings  but'one  to  bear, 

I  falter  where  I  firmly  trod. 

And  falling  with  my  weight  of  cares 
Upon  the  great  world's  altar-stairs 

That  slope  thro'  darkness  up  to  God, 

I   stretch   lame   hands    of    faith,  _and 
grope, 
And  gather  dust  and  chaff,  and  call 
To  what  I  feel  is  Lord  of  all. 

And  faintly  trust  the  larger  ho"iDe.  v-^ — 


LV. 


/ 


"  So  careful  of  the  type  ? "  but  no. 
From   scarped    cliff    and    quarried 

stone 
She  cries,   "A  thousand  types  are 
gone: 
I  care  for  nothing,  all  shall  go. 

"  Thou  makest  thine  appeal  to  me  : 
I  bring  to  life,  I  bring  to  death : 
The  spirit  does  but  mean  the  breath  : 

I  know  no  more."     And  he,  shall  he, 

Man,  her   last  work,  who   seem'd   so 
fair, 
Such  splendid  purpose  in  his  eyes, 
Who  roll'dthe  psalm  to  wintry  skies, 

Who  built  him  fanes  of  fruitless  prayer, 

Who  trusted  God  was  love  indeed. 
And  love  Creation's  final  law, — 
Tho'  Nature,  red  in  tooth  and  claw 

With     ravin,     shriek'd     against      his 
creed, —  """^ ' "-"-' " 

Who  loved,  who  suffer'd  countless  ills, 
Who  battled  for  the  True,  the  Just, 
Be  blown  about  the  desert  dust, 

Or  seal'd  within  the  iron  hills  ? 

No  more  ?     A  monster  then,  a  dream, 
A  discord.     Dragons  of  the  prime. 
That  tear  each  other  in  their  slime. 

Were  mellow  music  match'd  with  him 


194 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


0  life  as  futile,  then,  as  frail  f 
fi,f.2LMiX^^^  to..5ii£>ltL.aad-UIess ! 

What  hope  of  answer,  or  redress  ? 
Behind  the  veil,  behind  the  veil. 

LVI. 

Peace  ;  come  away :  the  song  of  woe 
Is  after  all  an  earthly  song  : 
Peace;    come   away:     we   do  him 
wrong 

To  sing  so  wildly  :  let  us  go. 

Come;  let  us  go:  your  cheeks  are 
pale ; 

But  half  my  life  I  leave  behind  ; 

Methinks  my  friend  is  richly  shrined 
But  I  shall  pass ;  my  work  will  fail. 

Yet  in  these  ears,  till  hearing  dies, 
One  set  slow  bell  will  seem  to  toll 
The  passing  of  the  sweetest  soul 

That  ever  look'd  with  human  eyes. 

1  hear  it  now,  and  o'er  and  o'er, 

Eternal  greetings  to  the  dead; 
And   "  Ave,  Ave,  Ave,"  said, 
*'  Adieu,  adieu,"  forevermore. 

LVII. 

In  those  sad  words  I  took  farewell  : 
Like  echoes  in  sepulchral  halls. 
As  drop  by  drop  the  water  falls 

In  vaults  and  catacombs  they  fell  j 

And,  falling,  idly  broke  the  peace 
Of  hearts  that  beat  from  day  to  day, 
Half  conscious  of  their  dying  clay. 

And  those  cold  crypts  where  they  shall 
cease. 

The  high  Muse  answer'd :  "  Wherefore 
grieve 

Thy  brethren  with  a  fruitless  tear? 

Abide  a  little  longer  here. 
And  thou  shalt  take  a  nobler  leave." 


O  vSoRROW,  wilt  thou  live  with  me, 
No  casual  mistress,  but  a  wife. 
My  bosom-friend  and  half  of  life, 

As  I  confess  it  needs  must  be ; 


O  Sorrow,  wilt  thou  rule  my  blood, 
Be  sometimes  lovely  like  a  bride, 
And  put  thy  harsher  moods  aside, 

If  thou  wilt  have  me  wise  and  good. 

My  centred  passion  cannot  move, 
Nor  will  it  lessen  from  to-day; 
But  I'll  have  leave  at  times  to  play 

As  with  the  creature  of  my  love- 

And  set  thee  forth,  for  thou  art  mine, 
With   so  much  hope   for  years  to 

come. 
That,  howsoe'er  I  know  thee,  some 
Could    hardly  tell  what    name  were 
thine. 


He  past:  a  soul  of  nobler  tone  : 
My  spirit  loved  and  loves  him  yet, 
Like  some  poor  girl  whose  heart  is 
set 

On  one  whose  rank  exceeds  her  own. 

He  mixing  with  his  proper  sphere. 
She  finds  the  baseness  of  her  lot, 
Half  jealous  of  she  knows  not  what, 

And  envying  all  that  meet  him  there. 

The  little  village  looks  forlorn  ; 
She  sighs  amid  her  narrow  days. 
Moving  about  the  household  ways. 

In  that  dark  house  where  she  was  born. 

The  foolish  neighbors  come  and  go, 
And  tease  her  till  the  day  draws  by: 
At  night  she  weeps,  "  How  vain  am 
I! 

How  should  he  love  a  thing  so  low  ? " 


If,  in  thy  second  state  sublime, 

Thy  ransom'd  reason  change  replies 
With  all  the  circle  of  the  wise, 

The  perfect  flower  of  human  time  : 

And  if  thou  cast  thine  eyes  below, 
How  dimly  character'd  and  slight, 
How  dwarf'd  a  growth  of  cold  and 
night, 
How  blanch'd  with  darkness  must  I 
grow  1 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


195 


Vet  turn  thee  to  the  doubtful  shore, 
Where  thy  first  form  was  made  a 

man ; 
I  loved  thee,  Spirit,  and  love,  nor  can 
The  soul  of   Shakespeare  love   thee 
more. 

LXI. 

Tho'  if  an  eye  that's  downward  cast 
Could  make  thee  somewhat  blench 

or  fail, 
Then  be  my  love  an  idle  tale, 

And  fading  legend  of  the  past; 

And  thou  as  one  that  once  declined 
When  Ke  was  little  more  than  boy, 
'  On  some  unworthy  heart  with  joy, 
But  lives  to  wed  an  equal  mind ; 

And  breathes  a  novel  world,  the  while 
His  other  passion  wholly  dies, 
Or  in  the  light  of  deeper  eyes 

Is  matter  for  a  flying  smile. 

LXI  I. 

Yet  pity  for  a  horse  o'er-driven, 
And  love  in  which  my  hound  has 

part. 
Can  hang  no  weight  upon  my  heart 

In  its  assumptions  up  to  heaven  ; 

And  I  am  so  much  more  than  these. 
As  thou,  perchance,  art  more  than  I, 
And  yet  I  spare  them  sympathy. 

And  I  would  set  their  pains  at  ease. 

So  mayst  thou  watch  me  where  I  weep 
As  unto  vaster  motions  bound, 
The  circuits  of  thine  orbit  round 

A  higher  height,  a  deeper  deep. 

LXIII. 

Dost  thou  look  back  on  what  hath 
been. 
As  some  divinely  gifted  man. 
Whose  life  in  low  estate  began 

And  on  a  simple  village  green  ; 

Who  breaks  his  birth's  invidious  bar. 
And  grasps    the    skirts    of    happy 
chance, 


And  breasts  the   blows   of   circum- 
stance. 
And  grapples  with  his  evil  star ; 

Who  makes  by  force  his  merit  known, 
And  lives  to  clutch  the  golden  keys 
To  mould  a  mighty  state's  decrees, 

And  shape  the  whisper  of  the  throne; 

And  moving  up  from  high  to  higher. 
Becomes    on    Fortune's    crowning 

slope 
The  pillar  of  a  people's  hope, 

The  centre  of  a  world's  desire  ; 

Yet  feels,  as  in  a  pensive  dream, 
When  all  his  active  powers  are  still, 
A  distant  dearness  in  the  hill, 

A  secret  sweetness  in  the  stream, 

The  limit  of  his  narrower  fate. 
While  yet  beside  its  vocal  springs 
He  play'd  at  counsellors  and  kings, 

With  one  that  was  his  earliest  mate ; 

Who  ploughs  with  pain  his  native  lea 
And  reaps  the  labor  of  his  hands. 
Or  in  the  furrow  musing  stands  : 

"  Does  my  old  friend  remember  me  ? " 


Sweet  soul,  do  with  me  as  thou  wilt ; 

I  lull  a  fancy  trouble-tost 

With  "Love's  too  precious  to  be 
lost, 
A  little  grain  shall  not  be  spilt." 

And  in  that  solace  can  I  sing, 

Till  out  of  painful  phases  wrought 
There  flutters  up  a  happy  thought, 

Self-balanced  on  a  lightsome  wing : 

Since  we  deserved  the  name  of  friends^ 
And  thine  effect  so  lives  in  me, 
A  part  of  mine  may  live  in  thee, 

And  move  thee  on  to  noble  ends. 


You  thought  my  heart  too  far  diseased; 
You  wonder  when  my  fancies  play 
To  find  me  gay  among  the  gay, 

Like  one  with  any  trifle  pleased^ 


196 


m  MEMORIAM. 


The  shade  by  which  my  life  was  crost, 
Which  makes  a  desert  in  the  mind, 
Has  made  me  kindly  with  my  kind, 

\nd  like  to  him  whose  §ight  is  lost ; 

Whose  feet  are  guided  thro'  the  land, 
Whose  jest  among  his  friends  is  free, 
Who  takes  the  children  on  his  knee, 

And  winds  their  curls  about  his  hand: 

He   plays  with  threads,  he  beats   his 
chair 
For  pastime,  dreaming  of  the  sky  • 
His  inner  day  can  never  die, 

His  night  of  loss  is  always  there. 


When  on  my  bed  the  moonlight  falls, 
I  know  that  in  thy  place  of  rest, 
By  that  broad  water  of  the  west. 

There  comes  a  glory  on  the  walls: 

Thy  marble  bright  in  dark  appears 
As  slowly  steals  a  silver  flame 
Along  the  letters  of  thy  name. 

And  o'er  the  number  of  thy  years. 

The  mystic  glory  swims  away : 

From  off  my  bed  the  moonlight  dies ; 
And,  closing  eaves  of  wearied  eyes, 

I  sleep  till  dusk  is  dipt  in  gray: 

And  then  I  know  the  mist  is  drawn 
A  lucid  veil  from  coast  to  coast. 
And  in  the  dark  church,  like  a  ghost, 

Thy  tablet  glimmers  to  the  dawn. 


When  in  the  down  I  sink  my  head. 
Sleep,  Death's   twin-brother,   times 

my  breath ; 
Sleep,  Death's  twin-brother,  knows 
not  Death, 
Nor  can  I  dream  of  thee  as  dead ; 

I  walk  as  ere  I  walk'd  forlorn, 

When  all  our  path  was  fresh  with 

dew, 
And  all  the  bugle  breezes  blew 

Beveillee  to  the  breaking  morn. 


But  what  is  this }   I  turn  about, 
I  find  a  trouble  in  thine  eye. 
Which  makes   me  sad,  I  know  not 
why, 

Nor  can  my  dream  resolve  the  doubt : 

But  ere  the  lark  hath  left  the  lea 
I  wake,  and  I  discern  the  truth ; 
It  is  the  trouble  of  my  youth 

That  foolish  sleep  transfers  to  the 

LXVIII. 

I  dream'd  there  would  be  Spring  no 
more, 
That    Nature's  ancient  power  was 

lost  ; 
The  streets  were  black  with  smoke 
and  frost, 
They  chatter'd  trifles  at  the  door: 

I  wander'd  from  the  noisy  town, 

I  found  a  wood  with  thorny  boughs: 
I  took  the  thorns  to  bind  my  brows, 

I  wore  them  like  a  civic  crown : 

I  met  with  scoffs,  I  met  with  scorns 
From   youth   and    babe   and   hoary 

hairs : 
They  call'd  me  in  the  public  squares 

The  fool  that  wears  a  crown  of  thorns : 

They  call'd  me  fool,  they  call'd  me 
child: 
I  found  an  angel  of  the  night ; 
The  voice  was  low,  the  look  was 
bright; 
He  look'd  upon  my  crown  and  smiled: 

He  reach'd  the  glory  of  a  hand, 
That  seem'd  to  touch  it  into  leaf : 
The  voice  was  not  the  voice  of  grief; 

The  words  were  hard  to  understand. 

LXIX. 

I  CANNOT  see  the  features  right, 
When  on  the  gloom  I  strive  to  paint 
The  face  I  know ;  the  hues  are  faint 

And  mix  with  hollow  masks  of  night; 

Cloud-towers      by     ghostly      masons 
wrought, 
A  gulf  that  ever  shuts  and  gapes, 
A  hand  that  points  and  palled  shapes 

In  shadowy  thoroughfares  of  thought; 


r,V  MEMOR/AM. 


[97 


A.nd  crowds  that  stream  from  yawning 
doors, 

And  shoals  of  pucker'd  faces  drive  ; 

Dark  bulks  that  tumble  half  alive, 
And  lazy  lengths  on  boundless  shores: 

Till  all  at  once  beyond  the  will 
I  hear  a  wizard  music  roll, 
And  thro'  a  lattice  on  the  soul 

Looks  thy  fair  face  and  makes  it  still. 

LXX. 

Sleep,  kinsman   thou  to  death  and 
trance 
And  madness,  thou  hast  forged  at 

last 
A  night-long  Present  of  the  Past 
In  which  we  went  thro'  summer  France. 

Hadst  thou  such  credit  with  the  soul  ? 
Then  bring  an  opiate  trebly  strong, 
Drug  down  the   blindfold  sense  of 
wrong 

That  so  my  pleasure  may  be  whole ; 

While  now  we  talk  as  once  we  talk'd 
Of    men    and   minds,   the    dust  of 

change, 
The  days  that  grow  to   something 
strange, 
In  walking  as  of  old  we  walk'd 

Beside  the  river's  wooded  reach, 
The  fortress,  and  the  mountain  ridge. 
The  cataract  flashing  from  the  bridge. 

The  breaker  breaking  on  the  beach. 

LXXI. 

RiSEST  thou  thus,  dim  dawn,  again, 
And  howlest,  issuing  out  of  night, 
With   blasts  that  blow  the  poplar 
white, 
And   lash   with  storm   the  streaming 
pane  ? 

Day,  when  my  crown'd  estate  begun 
To  pine  in  that  reverse  of  doom, 
Which  sicken'd  every  living  bloom, 

And  blurr'd  the  splendor  of  the  sun; 

Who  usherest  in  the  dolorous  hour 
With  thy  quick  tears  that  make  the 
rose 


Pull  sideways,  and  the  daisy  close 
Her  crimson  fringes  to  the  shower; 

Who  might'st  have  heaved  a  windlass 
flame 
Up  the  deep  East,  or,  whispering;, 

play'd 
A  chequer-work  of  beam  and  shade 
Along  the  hills,  yet  looked  the  same, 

As  wan,  as  chill,  as  wild  as  now; 
Day,  mark'd  as  with  some   hideous 

crime 
When  the  dark  hand  struck  down 
thro'  time, 
And  cancell'd  nature's  best :  but  thou. 

Lift  as  thou  mayst  thy  burthen'd  brows 
Thro'  clouds  that  drench  the  morn- 
ing star, 
And  whirl  the  ungarner'd  sheaf  afar, 

And  sow  the  sky  with  flying  boughs. 

And  up  thy  vault  with  roaring  sound 
Climb    thy  thick   noon,  disastrous 

day; 
Touch  thy  dull  goal  of  joyless  gray, 
And    hide    thy    shame    beneath    the 
ground. 

LXXII. 
So  many  worlds,  so  much  to  do, 
So  little  done,  such  things  to  be, 
How  know  I  what  had  need  of  thee. 
For  thou  wert  strong  as  thou   wert 
true? 

The  fame  is  quench'd  that  I  foresaw, 
The   head  hath    miss'd  an.  earthly 

wreath : 
I  curse  not  nature,  no,  nor  death  ; 

For  nothing  is  that  errs  from  law. 

We  pass ;  the  path  that  each  man  trod 
Is  dim,  or  will  be  dim,  with  weeds: 
What  fame  is  left  for  human  deeds 

In  endless  age  ?    It  rests  with  God. 

O  hollow  wraith  of  dying  fame, 
Fade  wholly,  while  the  soul  exults. 
And  self-infolds  the  large  results 

Of  force  that  would    have  forged  a 
name. 


198 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


LXXIII. 
As  sometimes  in  a  dead  man's  face, 
To  those   that  watch  it  more  and 

more, 
A  likeness,  hardly  seen  before, 
Comes  out — to  some  one  of  his  race : 

So,  dearest,  now  thy  brows  are  cold, 
I  see  thee  what  thou  art,  and  know 
Thy  likeness  to  the  wise  below, 

Thy  kindred  with  the  great  of  old. 

But  there  is  more  than  I  can  see, 
And  what  I  see  I  leave  unsaid, 
Nor  speak  it,  knowing   Death  has 
made 

His  darkness  beautiful  with  thee. 

LXXIV. 

I  LEAVE  thy  praises  unexpress'd 
In  verse  that  brings  myself  relief, 
And  by  the  measure  of  my  grief 

I  leave  thy  greatness  to  be  guess'd ; 

What  practice  howso'er  expert 
In  fitting  aptest  words  to  things. 
Or  voice  the  richest-toned  that  sings, 

Hath  power  to  give  thee  as  thou  wert  t 

I  care  not  in  these  fading  days 
To  raise  a  cry  that  lasts  not  long. 
And  round  thee  with  the  breeze  of 
song 

To  stir  a  little  dust  of  praise. 

Thy  leaf  has  perish'd  in  the  green, 
And,  while  we  breathe  beneath  the 

sun, 
The  world  which    credits  what  is 
done 
Is  cold  to  all  that  might  have  been. 

So  here  shall  silence  guard  thy  fame  ; 
But  somewhere,  out  of  human  view, 
Whate'er  thy  hands  are  set  to  do 

Is  wrought  with  tumult  of  acclaim. 

LXXV. 

Take  wings  of  fancy,  and  ascend, 
And  in  a  moment  set  thy  face 


Where    all  the    starry  heavens  o4 
space 
Are  sharpen'd  to  a  needle's  end ; 

Take  wings  of  foresight;  lighten  thro* 
The  secular  abyss  to  come, 
And  lo,  thy  deepest  lays  are  dumb 

Before  the  mouldering  of  a  yew ; 

And  if  the  matin  songs,  that  woke 
The  darkness  of  our  planet,  last, 
Thine  own  shall  wither  in  the  vast, 

Ere  half  the  lifetime  of  an  oak. 

Ere  these,  have  clothed  their  branchy 
bowers 
With  fifty  Mays,  thy  songs  are  vain ; 
And  what  are  they  when  these  re* 
main 
The  ruin'd  shells  of  hollow  towers  ? 

LXXVI. 
What  hope  is  here  for  modern  rhyme 
To  him  who  turns  a  musing  eye 
On  songs,  and  deeds,  and  lives,  that 
lie 
Foreshorten'd  in  the  tract  of  time  "i 

These  mortal  lullabies  of  pain 
May  bind  a  book,  may  line  a  box, 
May  serve  to  curl  a  maiden's  locks ; 

Or  when  a  thousand  moons  shall  wane 

A  man  upon  a  stall  may  find. 
And,   passing,  turn  the  page   that 
tells  [else, 

A  grief,  then  changed  to  something 

Sung  by  a  long-forgotten  mind. 

But  what  of  that  ?  My  darken'd  ways 
Shall  ring  with  music  all  the  same  ; 
To  breathe   my  loss  is  more   than 
fame. 

To  utter  love  more  sweet  than  praise. 


Again  at  Christmas  did  we  weave 
The    holly    round    the    Christmas 

hearth ; 
The  silent  snow  possess'd  the  earth, 

And  calmly  fell  our  Christmas-eve  : 


The  yule-clog  sparkled  keen  with  frost, 
No  wing  of  wind  the  region  swept, 
But  over  all  things  brooding  slept 

The  quiet  sense  of  something  lost. 

A.S  in  the  winters  left  behind, 
Again  our  ancient  games  had  place, 
The  mimic  picture's  breathing  grace, 

And  dance   and   song   and  hoodman- 
blind. 

Who  show'd  a  token  of  distress  ? 
No  single  tear,  no  mark  of  pain  : 

0  sorrow,  then  can  sorrow  wane  ? 
O  grief,  can  grief  be  changed  to  less  ? 

O  last  regret,  regret  can  die  ! 

No, — mixt  with  all  this  mystic  frame, 
Her  deep  relations  are  the  same. 

But  with  long  use  her  tears  are   dry. 

LXXVIII. 

"  More  than  my  brothers  are  to  me," 
Let  this  not  vex  thee,  noble  heart! 

1  know  thee  of  what  force  thou  art 
To  hold  the  costliest  love  in  fee. 

But  thou  and  I  are  one  in  kind, 
As  moulded  like  in  nature's  mint; 
And  hill  and  wood  and  field  did  print 

The  same  sweet  forms  in  either  mind. 

For  us  the  same  cold  streamlet  curl'd 
Thro'    all   his   eddying   coves ;    the 

same 
All   winds  that    roam  the    twilight 
came 
In  whispers  of  the  beauteous  world. 

At  one  dear  knee  we  proffer'd  vows. 
One     lesson    from     one    book    we 

learn'd. 
Ere  childhood's  flaxen  ringlet  turn'd 

To  black  and  brown  on  kindred  brows. 

And  so  my  wealth  resembles  thine, 
But  he  was  rich  where  I  was  poor, 
And  he  supplied  my  wants  the  more 

As  his  unlikeness  fitted  mine. 


Jf  any  vague  desire  should  rise. 
That  holy  Death  ere  Arthur  died 


Had  moved  me  kindly  from  his  side, 
And  dropt  the  dust  on  tearless  eyes ; 

Then  fancy  shapes,  as  fancy  can, 
The     grief     my   loss    in    him    had 

wrought, 
A  grief  as  deep  as  life  or  thought, 

But  stay'd  in  peace  with  God  and  man 

I  make  a  picture  in  the  brain ; 

I-  hear  the  sentence  that  he  speaks  ; 

He  bears  the  burthen  of  the  weeks  : 
But  turns  his  burthen  into  gain. 

His  credit  thus  shall  set  me  free  ; 

And,   influence-rich  to    soothe   and 
save, 

Unused  example  from  the  grave 
Reach  out  dead  hands  to  comfort  me. 


Could  I  have  said  while  he  was  here, 
*'  My    love    shall   now    no   further 

range  ; 
There     cannot    come    a    mellower 
change. 
For  now  is  love  mature  in  ear." 

Love,  then,  had  hope  of  richer  store : 
What  end  is  here  to  my  complaint? 
This   haunting   whisper    makes   me 
faint, 
**  More  years  had  made  me  love  thee 
more." 

But  Death  returns  an  answer  sweet : 
•'  My  sudden  frost  was  sudden  gain, 
And  gave  all  ripeness  to  the  grain 

It  might  have  drawn  from  after-heat." 


I  WAGE  not  my  feud  with  Death 

For  changes  wrought  on  form  and 

face ; 
No  lower  life  that  earth's  embrace 
May  breed   with   him   can   fright   my 
faith. 

Eternal  process  moving  on. 

From  state  to  state  the  spj^-it  walks  ; 

And    these    are  b'jt  the    shatter'd 
s«-aiiCS, 
Or  ruin'd  chrysalis  of  one. 


TN  MEMO  RI AM. 


Nor  blame  I  Death,  because  he  bare 
The  use  of  virtue  out  of  earth  : 
I  know  transplanted  human  worth 

Will  bloom  to  profit,  otherwhere. 

For  this  alone  on  Death  I  wreak 
The  wrath  that  garners  in  my  heart 
He  put  our  lives  so  far  apart 

We  cannot  hear  each  other  speak. 


Dip  down  upon  the  northern  shore, 
O  sweet  new-year,  delaying  long  : 
Thou  doest  expectant  nature  wrong ; 

Delaying  long,  delay  no  more. 

What    stays  thee    from  the   clouded 
noons, 

Thy  sweetness  from  its  proper  place  ? 

Can  trouble  live  with  April  days, 
Or  sadness  in  the  summer  moons  ? 

Bring  orchis,  bring  the  foxglove  spire. 
The  little  speedwell's  darling  blue, 
Deep  tulips  dash'd  with  fiery  dew. 

Laburnums,  dropping-wells  of  fire. 

0  thou,  new-year,  delaying  long, 
Delayest  the  sorrow  in  my  blood, 
That  longs  to  burst  a  frozen  bud. 

And  flood  a  fresher  throat  with  song. 

Ljfxxiii. 

When  I  contemplate  all  alone 
The  life  that  had  been  thine  below. 
And  fixed  my  thoughts  on  all  the 
glow 
To  which  thy  crescent    would    have 
grown. 

1  see  thee  sitting  crown'd  with  good, 
A  central  warmth  diffusing  bliss 

In  glance  and  smile,  and  clasp  and 
kiss, 
On  all  the  branches  of  thy  blood  ; 

Thy  blood,  my  friend,  and  partly  mine 
For  now  the  day  was  drawing  on 
When  thou  shouldst  link  thy  life  with 
one 

Of  mine  own  house,  and  boys  of  thine 


Had  babbled  "  Uncle  "  on  my  knee  ; 
But  that  remorseless  iron  hour 
Made  cypress  of  her  orange-flower. 

Despair  of  Hope,  and  earth  of  thee. 

I  seem  to  meet  their  least  desire. 
To  clap  their  cheeks,  to  call  them 

mine. 
I  see  their  unborn  faces  shine 

Beside  the  never-lighted  fire. 

I  see  myself  an  honor'd  guest, 
Thy  partner  in  the  flowery  walk 
Of  letters,  genial  table-talk. 

Or  deep  dispute,  and  graceful  jest ; 

While  now  thy  prosperous  labor  fills 
The  lips  of  men  w,ith  honest  praise, 
And  sun  by  sun  the  happy  days 

Descend  below  the  golden  hills. 

With  protnise  of  a  morn  as  fair ; 
And  all  the  train  of  bounteous  hours 
Conduct  by  paths  of  growing  powers 

To  reverence  and  the  silver  hair; 

Till  slowly  worn  by  earthly  robe, 
Her  lavish  mission  richly  wrought, 
Leaving  great  legacies  of  thought, 

Thy  spirit  should    fail  from  oS  the 
globe ; 

What  time  mine  own  might  also  flee. 
As  link'd  with  thine  in  love  andfate^ 
And,   hovering    o'er    the    dolorous 
strait 

To  the  other  shore,  involved  in  thee, 

Arrive  at  last  the  blessed  goal 
And  He  that  died  in  Holy  Land 
V/ould  reach    us  out    the  shining 
hand. 

And  take  us  as  a  single  soul. 

What  reed  was  that  on  which  I  leant  ? 
Ah,  backward  fancy,  wherefore  wake 
The  old  bitterness  again,  and  break 

The  low  beginnings  of  content  1 

LXXXIV. 

This  truth  came  borne  with  bier  and 
pall, 
I  felt  it,  when  I  sorrow'd  most, 
'Tis  better  to  have  loved  and  lost, 

Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


20I 


O  true  in  word,  and  tried  in  deed, 
Demanding,  so  to  bring  relief 
To  this  which  is  our  common  grief, 

What  kind  of  life  is  that  I  lead ; 

/Vnd  whether  trust  in  things  above 
Be  dimm'd  of  sorrow  or  sustain'd; 
And   whether    love  for    hiai    have 
drain'd 

My  capabilities  of  love ; 

Your  words  have  virtue  such  as  draw^ 
A  faithful  answer  from  the  breast, 
Thro'  light  reproaches,  half  exprest, 

And  loyal  unto  kindly  laws. 

My  blood  an  even  tenor  kept, 

Till  on  mine  ear  this  message  falls, 
That  in  Vienna's  fatal  walls 

God's  finger  touch'd  him,  and  he  slept. 

The  great  Intelligences  fair 

That  range  above  our  mortal  state, 
In  circle  round  the  blessed  gate. 

Received  and  gave  him  welcome  there ; 

And  led  him  thro'  the  blissful  climes, 
And  show'd    him    in  the  'fountain 

fresh 
All  knowledge  that  the  sons  of  flesh 

Shall  gather  in  the  cycled  times. 

But  I  remain' d,  whose  hopes  were  dim, 
Whose  life,  whose    thoughts  were 

little  worth, 
To  wander  on  a  darken'd  earth, 
Where  all  things  round  me  breathed  of 
him. 

O  friendship,  equal-poised  control, 
O  heart,  with  kindliest  motion  warm, 

0  sacred  essence,  other  form, 
O  solemn  ghost,  O  crowned  soul  ! 

Yet  none  could  better  know  than  I, 
How  much  of  act  at  human  hands 
The  sense  of  human  will  demands 

By  which  we  dare  to  live  or  die. 

Whatever  w^ay  my  days  decline, 

1  felt  and  feel  tho'  left  alone, 
His  being  working  in  mine  own, 

The  footsteps  of  his  life  in  mine  ; 


A  life  that  all  the  Muses  deck'd 

With    gifts    of    grace,  that    might 

express 
AH -comprehensive  tenderness. 

All-subtilizing  intellect  : 

And  so  my  passion  hath  not  swerved 
To  works  of  weakness,  but  I  tind 
An  image  comforting  the  mind, 

And  in  my  grief  a  strength  reserved. 

Likewise  the  imaginative  woe, 

That  loved  to  handle  spiritual  strife. 
Diffused  the  shock  thro'  all  my  life, 

But  in  the  present  broke  the  blow. 

My  pulses  therefore  beat  again 
For  other  friends  that  once  I  met ; 
Nor  can  it  suit  me  to  forget 

The  mighty  hope  that  make  us  men. 

I  woo  your  love:   I  count  it  crime 
To  mourn  for  any  overmuch  ; 
I,  the  divided  half  of  such 

A  friendship  as  had  master'd  Time  ; 

Which  masters  Time  indeed,  and  is 
Eternal,  separate  from  fears  ; 
The  all-assuming  months  and  3'ears 

Can  take  no  part  away  from  this  : 

But  Summer  on  the  steaming  floods. 
And  Spring  that  swells  the  narrow 

brooks. 
And  Autumn,  with  a  noise  of  rooks, 

That  gather  in  the  waning  woods. 

And  every  pulse  of  wind  and  wave 
Recalls,  in  change  of  light  or  gloom, 
My  old  affection  of  the  tomb. 

And  my  prime  passion  in  the  grave  : 

My  old  affection  of  the  tomb, 
A  part  of  stillness,  yearns  to  speak; 
"  Arise,  and  get  thee  forth  and  seek 

A  friendship  for  the  years  to  come. 

"  I  watch  thee  from  the  quiet  shore ; 

Thy  spirit  up  to  mine  can  reach  ; 

But  in  dear  words  of  human  speech 
We  two  communicate  no  more." 

And  I,  "  Can  clouds  of  nature  stain 
The  starry  clearness  of  the  free  .>* 
How  is  it }     Canst  thou  feel  for  me 

Some  painless  sympathy  with  pain  ?  " 


eo2 


IN-  MEMORIAM. 


And  lightly  does  the  whisper  fall : 
"  'Tis  hard  for  thee  to  fathom  this  : 
I  triumph  in  conclusive  bliss, 

And  that  serene  result  of  all.'* 

So  hold  I  commerce  with  the  dead ; 

Or  so  methinks  the  dead  would  say; 

Or  so  shall  grief  with  symbols  play, 
And  pining  life  be  fancy-fed. 

Now  looking  to  some  settled  end, 
That  these  things  pass,  and  I  shall 

prove 
A  meeting    somewhere,   love   with 
love, 
I  crave  your  pardon,  O  my  friend  ; 

If  not  so  fresh,  with  love  as  true, 
I,  clasping  brother-hands,  aver 
I  could  not,  if  I  would,  transfer 

The  whole  I  felt  for  him  to  you. 

For  which  be  they  that  hold  apart 
The  promise  of  the  golden  hours  ? 
First   love,   first    friendship,    equal 
powers, 

That  marry  with  the  virgin  heart. 

Still  mine,  that  cannot  but  deplore. 
That  beats  within  a  lonely  place, 
That  yet  remembers  his  embrace. 

But  at  his  footstep  leaps  no  more. 

My  heart,  tho'  widow'd,  may  not  rest 
Quite  in  the  love  of  what  is  gone, 
But  seeks  to  beat  in  time  with  one 

That  warms  another  living  breast. 

Ah,  take  the  imperfect  gift  I  bring, 
Knov/ing  the  primrose  vet  is  dear, 
The  primrose  of  the  later  year. 

As  not  unlike  to  that  of  Spring. 

LXXXV. 

Sweet  after  showers,  ambrosial  air, 
That    rollest    from    the     gorgeous 

gloom 
Of  evening  over  brake  and  bloom 

And  meadow,  slowly  breathing  bare 

The  round  of  space,  and  rapt  below 
Thro'  all  the  dewy-tassell  d  wood, 
And   shadowing   down   the   horned 
flood 

In  ripples,  fan  my  brows  and  blow 


The  fever  from  my  cheek,  and  sigh 
The   full   new   life   that    feeds    th^ 

breath 
Throughout   my   frame,   till   Doubt 
and  Death, 
111  brethren  let  the  fancy  fly 

From  belt  to  belt  of  crimson  seas 
On  leagues  of  odor  streaming  far. 
To  where  in  yonder  orient  star 

A  hundred  spirits  whisper  *'  Peace." 

LXXXVI. 

I  PAST  beside  the  reverend  walls 
In  which  of  old  I  wore  the  gown  ; 
I  roved  at  random  thro'  the  town, 

And  saw  the  tumult  of  the  halls; 

And  heard  once  more  in  college  fanes 
The   storm   their   high-built  organs 

make. 
And  thunder-music,  rolling,  shake 

The  prophets  blazon'd  on  the  panes; 

And   caught   once   more    the    distant 
shout. 
The  measured  pulse  of  racing  oars 
Among    the    willows ;     paced    the 
shores 
And  many  a  bridge,  and  all  about 

The  same  gray  flats  again,  and  felt 
The  same,  but  not   the  same ;   and 

last 
Up  that  long  walk  of  limes  I  past 

To  see  the  rooms  in  which  he  dwelt. 

Another  name  was  on  the  door : 
I  linger'd;  all  within  was  noise 
Of  songs,  and  clapping  hands,  and 
boys 
That  crash'd  the  glass  and  beat  the 
floor; 

Where  once  we  held  debate,  a  band 
Of  youthful  friends,  on  mind  and  art, 
And  labor,  and  the  changing  mart, 

And  all  the  framework  of  the  land; 

When  one  would  aim  an  arrow  fair. 
But  send  it  slackly  from  the  string; 
And  one  would  pierce  an  outer  ringj 

And  one  an  inner  ,  here  and  there  : 


m  MEMORIAM, 


2  03 


And  last  the  master-bowman,  he 
Would  cleave  the  mark.     A  willing 

ear 
We  lent  him.     Who,  but  hung  to 
hear 
The  rapt  oration  flowing  free 

From  point  to  point,  with  power  and 
grace 
And  music  in  the  bounds  of  law, 
To  those  conclusions  when  we  saw 

The  God  within  him  light  his  face, 

And  seem  to  lift  the  form,  and  glow 
In  azure  orbits  heavenly-wise ; 
And  over  those  ethereal  eyes 

The  bar  of  Michael  Angelo. 

LXXXVII. 

Wild  bird,  whose  warble,  liquid  sweet, 
Rings  Eden  thro'  the  budded  quicks, 

0  tell  me  where  the  senses  mix, 
O  tell  me  where  the  passions  meet, 

Whence  radiate  :  fierce  extremes  em- 
ploy 
Thy  spirits  in  the  darkening  leaf, 
And  in  the  midmost  heart  of  grief 

Thy  passion  clasps  a  secret  joy : 

And  I — my  harp  would  prelude  woe — 

1  cannot  all  command  the  strings  : 
The  glory  of  the  sum  of  things 

Will  flash  along  the  chords  and  go. 

LXXXVIII. 

Witch-elms  that  counterchange  the 
floor 
Of  this  flat  lawn   with    dusk    and 

bright ; 
And  thou,  with  all  thy  breadth  and 
height 
v)f  foliage,  towering  sycamore ; 

How  often,  hither  wandering  down. 
My  Arthur  found  your  shadows  fair, 
And  shook  to  all  the  liberal  air 

The  dust  and  din  and  steam  of  town : 

He  brought  an  eye  for  all  he  saw ; 
He  mixt  in  all  our  simple  sports ; 


They  pleased  him,  fresh  from  broil- 
ing courts 
And  dusty  purlieus  of  the  law. 

O  joy  to  him  in  this  retreat, 
immantled  in  ambrosial  dark. 
To  drink  the  cooler  air,  and  mark 

The  landscape  winking  thro'  the  heat: 

O  sound  to  rout  the  brood  of  cares, 
The    sweep  of  scythe  in  mornmg 

dew, 
The  gust  that  round  the  garden  flew, 

And  tumbled  half  the  mellowing  pears ! 

O  bliss,  when  all  in  circle  drawn 
About  him,  heart  and  ear  were  fed 
To  hear  him,  as  he  lay  and  read 

The  Tuscan  poet  on  the  lawn : 

Or  in  the  all-golden  afternoon 
A  guest,  or  happy  sister,  sung, 
Or  here  she  brought  the  harp  anc 
flung 

A  ballad  to  the  brightening  moon ; 

Nor  less  it  pleased  in  livelier  moods, 
Beyond  the  bounding  hill  to  stray. 
And  break  the  livelong  summer  day 

With  banquet  in  the  distant  woods; 

Whereat  we  glanced  from  theme  tc 
theme, 
Discuss'd  the  books  to  love  or  hate, 
Or  touch'd  the  changes  of  the  state. 

Or  threaded  some  Socratic  dream  ? 

But  if  I  praised  the  busy  town,  \ 

He  loved  to  rail  against  it  still, 
For  "  ground  in  yonder  social  mill, 

We  rub  each  other's  angles  down, 

"  And  merge,"  he  said,  *'  in  form  and 
gloss 
The  picturesque  of  man  and  man." 
We  talk'd  :  the  stream  beneath  u? 
ran. 
The  wine-flask  lying  couch'd  in  moss, 

Or  cool'd  within  the  glooming  wave  ; 
And  last,  returning  from  afar. 
Before  the  crimson-circled  star 

Had  fall'n  into  her  father's  grave, 


204 


TN-  MEMORTAM. 


And  brushing  ankle-deep  in  flowers, 
We  heard  behind  the  woodbine  veil 
The  milk  that  bubbled  in  the  pail, 

And  buzzings  of  the  honeyed  hours. 


He  tasted  love  with  half  his  mind, 
Nor  ever  drank  the  inviolate  spring 
Where    nighest    heaven,   who  first 
could  fling 

This  bitter  seed  among  mankind  : 

That  could  the  dead,  whose  dying  eyes 
Were  closed  with  wail,  resume  their 

life. 
They  would  but  find  in  child  and 
wife 
An  iron  welcome  when  they  rise : 

'Twas  well,  indeed,  when  warm  with 
wine, 
To  pledge  them  with  a  kindly  tear, 
To  talk  them  o'er,   to  wish  them 
here. 
To  count  their  memories  half  divine  ; 

But  if  they  came  who  passed  away. 
Behold  their  brides  in  other  hands  ; 
The   hard  heir  strides  about  their 
lands, 

And  will  not  yield  them  for  a  day. 

Yea,  tho'  their  sons  were  none  of  these, 
Not   less  the  yet-loved  sire  would 

make 
Confusion  worse    than  death,  and 
shake 
The  pillars  of  domestic  peace. 

Ah  dear,  but  come  thou  back  to  me  : 
Whatever   change   the  years    have 

wrought 
I  find  not  yet  one  lonely  thought 

That  cries  against  my  wish  for  thee. 

xc. 

When  rosy  plumelets  tuft  the  larch. 
And    rarely    pipes    the    mounted 

thrush ; 
Or  underneath  the  barren  bush 

Flits  by  the  sea-blue  bird  of  March  ; 


Come,  wear  the  form  by  which  I  know 
Thy  spirit  in  time  among  thy  peers,- 
The  hope  of  unaccomplish'd  years 

Be  large  and  lucid  round  thy  brow. 

When     summer's    hourly -mellowing 
change 
May  breathe,  with  many  roses  sweet. 
Upon  the  thousand  waves  of  wheat, 

That  ripple  round  the  lonely  grange ; 

Come :  not  in  watches  of  the  night, 
But  where    the  sunbeam  broodeth 

warm, 
Come,  beauteous  in  thine  after  form. 

And  like  a  finer  light  in  light. 

xci. 

If  any  vision  should  reveal 

Thy  likeness,  I  might  count   it  vain. 
As  but  the  canker  of  the  brain ; 

Yea,  tho'  it  spake  and  made  appeal 

To  chances  where  our  lots  were  cast 
Together  in  the  days  behind. 
I  might  but  say,  I  hear  a  wind 

Of  memory  murmuring  the  past. 

Yea,  tho'  it  spake  and  bared  to  view 
A  fact  within  the  coming  year ; 
And  tho'  the  months,  revolving  near, 

Should    prove    the    phantom-warning 
true. 

They  might  not  seem  thy  prophecies, 
But  spiritual  presentiments, 
And  such  refraction  of  events 

As  often  rises  ere  they  rise. 


I  SHALL  not  see  thee.     Dare  I  say 
No  spirit  ever  brake  the  band 
That  stays  him  from  the  native  land, 

Where  first  he  walk'd  when  claspt  in 
clay? 

No  visual  shade  of  some  one  lost, 
But  he,  the  Spirit  himself,  maycomff 
Where    all   the  nerve   of  sense  is 
numb ; 

Spirit  to  Spirit,  Ghost  to  Ghost. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


205 


O,  therefore  from  thy  sightless  range 
With  gods  in  unconjectured  bliss, 
O,  from  the  distance  of  the  abyss 

Of  tenfold-complicated  change, 

Descend,  and  touch,  and  enter ;  hear 
The   wish  too   strong  for  words  to 

name  ; 
That  in  this  blindness  of  the  frame 

My  Ghost  may  teel  that  thine  is  near. 

XCIII. 

How  pure  at  heart  and  sound  in  head, 
With  what  divine  affections  bold, 
Should  be  the  man   whose   thought 
would  hold 

An  hour's  communion  with  the  dead. 

In  vain  shalt  thou,  or  any,  call 
The  spirits  from  their  golden  day, 
Except,   like  them,   thou  too   canst 
say. 

My  spirit  is  at  peace  with  all. 

They  haunt  the  silence  of  the  breast, 
Imaginations  calm  and  fair. 
The  memory  like  a  cloudless  air, 

The  conscience  as  a  sea  at  rest 

But  when  the  heart  is  full  of  din, 
And  doubt  beside  the  portal  waits, 
They  can  but  listen  at  the  gates, 

And  hear  the  household  jar  within. 


By  night  we  linger'd  on  the  lawn. 
For  underfoot  the  herb  was  dry ; 
And  genial   warmth ;  and   o'er    the 
sky 

The  silvery  haze  of  summer  drawn  ; 

And  calm  that  let  the  tapers  burn 
Unwavering  :  not  a  cricket  chirr'd  : 
The  brook  alone  far-off  was  heard, 

And  on  the  board  the  fluttering  urn  : 

And  bats  went  round  in  fragrant  skies. 
And  wheel'd  or  lit  the  filmy  shapes 
That  haunt   the   dusk,  with   ermine 
capes 

And  woolly  breasts  and  beaded  eyes ; 


While   now   we   sang   old   songs   that 
peal'd 
From  knoll  to  knoll,  where,  couch'd 

at  ease, 
The  white  kine   glimmerM,   and    the 
trees 
Laid  their  dark  arms  about  the  field. 

But  when  those  others,  one  by  one, 
Withdrew  themselves  from   me   and 

night, 
And  in  the  house  light  after  light 

Went  out,  and  I  was  all  alone, 

A  hunger  seized  my  heart ;  I  read 
Of  that  glad  year  that  once  had  been, 
In  those  fall'n   leaves    which   kept 
their  green. 

The  noble  letters  of  the  dead : 

And  strangely  on  the  silence  broke 
The      silent-speaking     words,     and 

strange 
Was  love's  dumb  cry  defying  change 

To  test  his  worth  ;  and  strangely  spoke 

The  faith,  the  vigor,  bold  to  dwell 
On  doubts  that  drive  the    coward 

back. 
And  keen  thro*  wordy  snares  to  track 

Suggestion  to  her  immost  cell. 

So  word  by  word,  and  line  by  line, 
The  dead  man  touch'd  me  from  the 

past. 
And  all  at  once  it  seem'd  at  last 

His  living  soul  was  flash'd  on  mine, 

And  mine  in  his  was  wound,  and  whirl'd 
About  empyreal  heights  of  thought, 
And  came  on  that  which  is,  and 
caught 

The  deep  pulsations  of  the  world, 

Ionian  music  measuring  out 

The  steps  of  Time,   the   shocks   of 

Chance, 
The  blows  of  Death.     At  length  my 
trance 
Was     cancell'd,     stricken    thro'  with 
doubt. 


2o6 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


Vague  words  !  but-  ah,   how   hard  to 
frame 
In  matter-moulded  forms  of  speech, 
Or  ev'n  for  intellect  to  reach 

Thro'  memory  that  which  I  became: 

Till  now  the  doubtful  dusk  reveal'd 
The  knoll  once  more  where,  couch'd 

at  ease, 
The  white  kine  glimmer'd,  and  the 
trees 
Laid  their  dark  arms  about  the  field  : 

And  suck'd  from  out  the  distant  gloom, 
A  breeze  began  to  tremble  o'er 
The  large  leaves  of  the  sycamore, 

And  fluctuate  all  the  still  perfume, 

And  gathering  freshlier  overhead, 
Rock'd  the  fuU-foIiaged  elms,  and 

swung 
The  heavy-folded  rose,  and  flung 

The  lilies  to  and  fro,  and  said, 

*  The  dawn,  the  dawn,"  and  died  away ; 
And  East    and     West,    without    a 

breath, 
Mixt  their  dim  lights,  like  life  and 
death. 
To  broaden  into  boundless  day. 


You  say,  but  with  no  touch  of  scorn, 
Sweet-hearted,  you,  whose  light-blue 

eyes 
Are  tender  over  drowning  flies, 

You  tell  me,  doubt  is  Devil-born. 

I  know  not :  one  indeed  I  knew 
In  many  a  subtle  question  versed. 
Who   touch'd  a  jarring  lyre  at  first, 

But  ever  strove  to  make  it  true  : 

Perplext  in  faith,  but  pure  m  deeds. 
At  last  he  beat  his  music  out. 
There   lives  more   taith  in    honest 
doubt. 

Believe  me,  than  in  half  the  creeds. 

He  fought  his   doubts     and  gather'd 
strength, 
He  would  not  make   his  judgment 

blind, 
He  faced  tiie  spectres  of  the  mind 
And  laid  them :  thus  he  came  at  length 


To  find  a  stronger  faith  his  own ; 
And   Power   was   with   him   in  the 

night, 
Which  makes  the  darkness  and  the 
light. 
And  dwells  not  in  the  light  alone. 

But  in  the  darkness  and  the  cloud, 
As  over  Sinai's  peaks  of  old. 
While  Israel  made  their  gods  of  gold, 

Altho'  the  trumpet  blew  so  loud. 

xcvi. 
My  love   has  talk'd  with  rocks    and 
trees ; 
He  finds  on  misty  mountain-ground 
!      His  own  vast  shadow  glory-crown'd ; 
He  sees  himself  in  all  he  sees. 

Two  partners  of  a  married  life, — 
I   look'd  on   these,  and  thought  of 

thee 
In  vastness  and  in  mystery. 

And  of  my  spirit  as  of  a  wife. 

These  two— they  dwelt  with  eye   on 
eye, 
Their  hearts  of  old  have  beat  intu:^, 
Their    meetings    made     Decemb>  < 
June,  " 

Their  every  parting  was  to  die. 

Their  love  has  neve*-  past  away; 
The  days  she  never  can  forget 
Are  earnest  that  he  loves  her  ycf, 

Whate'er  the  faithless  people  say. 

Her  life  is  lone,  he  sits  apart. 

He  loves  her  yet,  she  will  not  wecj> 
Tho'  rapt  in  matters  dark  and  deep 

He  seems  to  slight  her  simple  heart. 

He  thrids  the  labyrinth  of  the  mind, 
He  reads  the  secret  of  the  star, 
He  seems  so  near  and  yet  so  far, 

He  looks  so  cold  :  she  thinks  him  kind 

She  keeps  the  gift  of  years  before, 
A  wither'd  violet  is  her  bliss; 
She  knows  not  what  his  greatness  is: 

For  that,  for  all,  she  loves  him  more. 

For  him  she  plays,  to  him  she  sings 
Of  early  faith  and  plighted  vows  ; 
She  knows  but  matters  of  the  houses 
I  And  he,  he  knows  a  thousand  things. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


20 


Her  faith  is  fixt  and  cannot  move, 
She  darkly  feels  him  great  and  wise, 
She  dwells  on  him  with  faithful  eyes, 

■'*  I  cannot  understand  :  I  love." 


XCVII. 

^ou  leave  us :  you  will  see  the  Rhine,  j 
And  those  fair  hills  I  sail'd  below, 
When  I  was  there  with  him ;  and  go 

By  summer  belts  of  wheat  and  vine 

To  where  he  breathed  his  latest  breath* 
That  City. ,  All  her  splendor  seems 
No  livelier  than  the  wisp  that  gleams 

On  Lethe  in  the  eyes  of  Death. 

Let  her  great  Danube  rolling  fair 
Enwind  her  isles,  unraark'd  of  me 
I  have  not  seen,  I  will  not  see 

Vienna ;  rather  dream  that  there, 

A  treble  darkness,  Evil  haunts 

The   birth,  the   bridal;  friend    from 

friend 
Is  oftener  parted,  fathers  bend 

Above  more  graves,  a  thousand  wants 

Gnarr  at  the  heels  of  men,  and  prey 
By  each  cold  hearth,   and  sadness 

flings 
Her  shadow  on  the  blaze  of  kings  : 

And  yet  myself  have  heard  him  say, 

That  not  in  any  mother  town 

With  statelier  progress  to  and  fro 
The  double  tides  of  chariots  flow 

By  park  and  suburb  under  brown 

Of  lustier  leaves  ;  nor  more  content. 
He  told  me,  lives  in  any  crowd, 
When  all   is  gay  with   lamps,   and 
loud 
^  With  sport  and  song,  in  booth   and 
I        tent. 

Imperial  halls,  or  open  plain  ; 

And  wheels  the  circled  dance,  and 
breaks 

The  rocket  molten  into  flakes 
Of  crimson  or  in  emerafd  rain. 


XCVIII. 

RiSEST  thou  thus,  dim  dawn,  again, 
So  loud  with  voices  of  the  birds. 
So  thick  with  lowings  of  the  herds, 

Day,  when  I  lost  the  flower  of  men ; 

Who  tremblest  thro'  thy  darkling  red 
On  yon  swoll'n  brook  that  bubbles 

fast 
By  meadows  breathing  of  the  past, 

And  woodlands  holy  to  the  dead ; 

Who  murmurest  in  the  foliaged  eaves 
A  song  that  slights  the  coming  care. 
And  Autumn  laying  here  and  there 

A  fiery  finger  on  the  leaves ; 

Who  wakenest  with  thy  balmy  breath, 
To  myriads  on  the  genial  earth, 
Memories  of  bridal,  or  of  birth. 

And  unto  myriads  more  of  death. 

O,  wheresoever  those  may  be. 
Betwixt  the  slumber  of  the  poles, 
To-day  they  count  as  kindred  souls ; 
They  know  me  not,   but  mourn  with 
me. 

xcix. 

I  CLIMB  the  hill :  from  end  to  end 
Of  all  the  landscape  underneath, 
I  find  no  place  that  does  not  breathe 

Some  gracious  memory  of  my  friend  ; 

No  gray  old  grange,  or  lonely  fold. 
Or  low  morass  and  whispering  reed. 
Or  simple  stile  from  mead  to  mead. 

Or  sheepwalk  up  the  windy  wold ; 

No  hoary  knoll  of  ash  and  haw 
That  hears  the  latest  linnet  trill, 
Nor  quarry  trench'd  along  the  hill. 

And  haunted  by  the  wrangling  daw  ; 

Nor  runlet  tinkling  from  the  rock  : 
Nor  pastoral  rivulet  that  swerves 
To  left  and  right    thro'  meadowj 
curves. 

That  feed  the  mothers  of  the  flock ; 

But  each  has  pleased  a  kindred  eye, 
And  each  reflects  a  kindlier  day  ; 
And,  leaving  these,  to  pass  away, 

I  think  once  more  he  seems  to  die. 


2o8 


IN  ME  MORI  AM. 


c. 

Unwatch'd,  the  garden  bough  shall 
sway, 
The  tender  blossom  flutter  down, 
Unloved,     that    beech    will    gather 
brown, 
This  maple  burn  itself  away  ; 

Unloved,  the  sun-flower,  shining  fair, 
Ray  round  with  flames  her  disk  of 

seed. 
And  many  a  rose-carnation  feed 

With  summer  spice  the  humming  air ; 

Unloved,  by  many  a  sandy  bar, 
The   brook  shall  babble    down  the 

plain. 
At  noon,  or  when  the  lesser  wain 

Is  twisting  round  the  polar  star  ; 

Uncared  for,  gird  the  windy  grove. 
And  flood  the  haunts  of  hern  and 

crake  ; 
Or  into  silver  arrows  break 

The  sailing  moon  in  creek  and  cove  ; 

Till  from  the  garden  and  the  wild 

A  fresh  association  blow. 

And   year   by   year    the    landscape 
grow, 
Familiar  to  the  stranger's  child  ; 

As  year  by  year  the  laborer  tills 

His  wonted  glebe,  or  lops  the  glades ; 
And  year  by  year  our  memory  fades 

From  all  the  circle  of  the  hills. 


We  leave  the  well-beloved  place 
Where  first  we  gazed  upon  the  sky  ; 
The  roofs,  that  heard  our  earliest 
cry. 

Will  shelter  one  of  stranger  race. 

We  go,  but  ere  we  go  from  home. 
As  down  the  garden-walks  I  move, 
Two  spirits  of  a  diverse  love 

Contend  for  loving  masterdom. 

One  whispers,  thy  boyhood  sung 

Long  since  its  matin  song,  and  heard 
The  low  love-language  of  the  bird 

In  native  hazels  tassel-liung. 


The  other  answers,  "  Yea,  but  here 
Thy  feet  have  strayed  in  after  hours 
With    thy   lost   friend    among   the 
bowers, 

And  this  hath  made  them  trebly  dear." 

These  two  have  striven  half  the  day, 
And  each  prefers  his  separate  clay, 
Poor  rivals  in  a  losing  game, 

That  will  not  yield  each  other  way. 

I  turn  to  go  :  my  feet  are  set 

To    leave   the   pleasant   fields   and 
farms ; 

They  mix  in  one  another's  arms 
To  one  pure  image  of  regret. 

CIl. 

On  that  last  night  before  we  went 
From   out   the  doors  where  1  was 

bred, 
I  dream'd  a  vision  of  the  dead, 

Which  left  my  after-morn  content. 

Methought  I  dwelt  within  a  hall, 
And  maidens  with  me  :  distant  hills 
From  hidden  summits  fed  with  rills 

A  river  sliding  by  the  wall. 

The  hall  with  harp  and  carol  rang. 
They  sang  of  what  is  wise  and  good 
And  graceful.     In  the  centre  stood 

A  statue  veil'd,  to  which  they  sang ; 

And  which  tho'  veil'd  was  known  to 
me. 
The  shape  of  him  I  loved,  and  love 
Forever  :  then  flew  in  a  dove 

And  brought  a  summons  from  the  sea  : 

And  when  they  learnt  that  I  must  go, 
They  wept  and  wail'd,  but  led  the 

way 
To  where  a  little  shallop  lay 

At  anchor  in  the  flood  below  ; 

And  on  by  many  a  level  mead, 

And  shadowing  bluff  that  made  the 
banks, 
We  glided  winding  under  ranks 
Of  iris,  and  the  golden  reed ; 


IN  ME  MORI  AM. 


to9 


And  still  as  vaster  grew  the  shore, 
And   roll'd   the   floods    in    grander 

space, 
The  maidens  gather'd  strength  and 
grace 
And  presence,  lordlier  than  before  j 

And  I  myself,  who  sat  apart 

And  watch'd  them,wax'd  in  every 
limb ; 

I  felt  the  thews  of  Anakim, 
The  pulses  of  a  Titan's  heart ; 

As  one  would  sing  the  death  of  war. 
And  one  would  chant  the  history 
Of  that  great  race  which  is  to  be, 

And  one  the  shaping  of  a  star  ; 

Until  the  forward-creeping  tides 
Began  to  foam,  and  we  to  draw. 
From  deep  to  deep,  to  where  we  saw 

A  great  ship  lift  her  shining  sides. 

The  man  we  loved  was  there  on  deck. 
But  thrice  as  large  as  man  he  bent 
To  greet  us.     Up  the  side  I  went, 

And  fell  in  silence  on  his  neck : 

Wherfeat  those  maidens  with  one  mind 
Bewail'd  their  lot ;  I  did  them  wrong : 
"  We  served  thee  here,"  they  said, 
"  so  long, 

And  wilt  thou  leave  us  now  behind  "i  " 

So  rapt  I  was,  they  could  not  win 
An  answer  from  my  lips,  but  he 
Replying,  "  Enter  likewise  ye 

And  go  with  us  "  :  they  enter'd  in. 

And  while  the  windf)egan  to  sweep 
A  music  out  of  sheet  and  shroud. 
We  steer'd   her   toward  a  crimson 
cloud 

That  landlike  slept  along  the  deep. 


The  time    draws    near   the   birth   of 
Christ : 

The  moon  is  hid,  the  night  is  still ; 

A  single  church  below  the  hill 
As  pealing,  folded  in  the  mist. 


A  single  peal  of  bells  below. 
That  wakens  at  this  hour  of  res 
A  single  murmur  in  the  breast. 

That  these  are  not  the  bells  I  know. 

Like  stranger's  voices  here  they  sound. 
In  lands  where  not  a  memory  straySj 
Nor  landmark  breathes  of  other  days. 

But  all  is  new  unhallow'd  ground. 


This  holly  by  the  cottage-eave. 

To-night,  ungather'd,  shall  it  stand  : 
We  live  within  the  stranger's  land, 

And  strangely  falls  our  Christmas-eve. 

Our  father's  dust  is  left  alone 
And  silent  under  other  snows 
There   in   due   time   the    woodbine 
blows. 

The  violet  comes,  but  we  are  gone. 

No  more  shall  wayward  grief  abuse 
The    genial  hour   with    mask    and 

mime  ; 
For  change  of  place,  like  growth  of 
time. 
Has  broke  the  bond  of  dying  use. 

Let  cares  that  petty  shadows  cast, 
By  which  our  lives  are  chiefly  proved, 
A  little  spare  the  night  I  loved. 

And  hold  it  solemn  to  the  past 

But  let  no  footstep  beat  the  floor. 
Nor  bowl  nor  wassil  mantle  warm  ; 
For  who  would  keep  an  ancient  form 

Thro'   which   the   spirit    breathes   no 
more  .-' 

Be  neither  song,  nor  game,  nor  feast; 

Nor  harp  be  touch'd,  nor  flute  ba 
blown ; 

No  dance,  no  motion,  save  alone  , 
What  lightens  in  the  lucid  east 

Of  rising  worlds  by  yonder  wood. 

Long  sleeps  the  summer  in  the  seed ; 

Run  out  your    measured  arcs,  and 
lead 
The  closing  cycle  rich  in  good. 


2IO 


IN  ME  MORI  AM. 


r 


Ring  out  wild  bells  to  the  wild  sky, 
Thy  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light : 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night ; 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new, 
Ring,  happyT)ells,  across  Hie  snow : 
The  year  is  going,  let  him  go  ; 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 

Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind. 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more ; 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor, 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 

Ring  out  a  slowly  dyjng  cause. 
And  ancient  forms  of  party^rife  ; 
Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life, 

With  sweeter  manners,  purer  la\ys. 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin, 
The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times ; 
Ring    out,   ring    out   my    mournful 
rhymes. 

But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 

Ring  out  false J)ride  in  place  and  blood. 
The  civic  blander  and  the  spite  ; 
Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right, 

Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease  ; 
Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold 
Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old, 

Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free. 
The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand ; 
Ringout  the  darkness  of  the  land, 

RmgrnTHe  Christ  tharirm^^     


cvi. 

It  is  the  day  when  he  wa?  born, 
A  bitter  day  that  early  sank 
Behind  a  purple-frosty  bank 

Of  vapor,  leaving  night  forlorn. 

The  time  admits  not  flowers  or  leaves 
To  deck  the  banquet.  Fiercely  flies 
The  blast  of  North  and  East,  and 
ice 

Makes  daggers  at  the  sharpen'd  eaves. 


And  bristles  all  the  brakes  and  thorns 
To  yon  hard  crescent,  as  she  hangs 
Above  the  wood  which  grides  and 
clangs 

Its  leafless  ribs  and  iron  horns 

Together,  in  the  drifts  that  pass 
To  darken  on  the  rolling  brine 
That  breaks  the  coast.     But  fetch 
the  wine. 

Arrange  the  board  and  brim  the  glass; 

Bring  in  great  logs  and  let  them  lie, 
To  make  a  solid  core  of  heat; 
Be  cheerful-minded,  talk  and  treat 

Of  all  things  ev'n  as  he  were  by ; 

^e  keep  the  day.     With  festal  cheer. 
With  books  and  music,  surely  we 
Will  drink  to  him  whate'er  he  be, 

And  sing  the  songs  he  loved  to  hear. 

CVII. 

I  WILL  not  shut  me  from  my  kind, 
x\nd,  lest  I  stiffen  into  stone, 
I  will  not  eat  my  heart  alone, 

Nor  feed  with  sighs  a  passing  wind  : 

What  profit  lies  in  barren  faith^ 

And  vacant  yearning,  tho*  with  might 
To  scale  the  heaven's  highest  height, 

Or  dive  below  the  wells  of  Death  ? 

What  find  I  in  the  highest  place, 
But  mine  own    phantom    chanting 

hymns  ? 
And  on  the  depths  of  death  there 
swims 
The  reflex  of  a  human  face. 

I'll  rather  take  what  fruit  may  be 
Of  sorrow  under  human  skies  : 
'Tis    held    that    sorrow  makes    ur- 
wise. 

Whatever  wisdom  sleep  with  thee. 


Heart-affluence  in  discursive  talk 
From    household    fountains    never 

dry; 
The  critic  clearness  of  an  eye. 

That  saw  thro'  all  the  Muses'  walk  : 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


211 


Seraphic  intellect  and  force 

To  seize  and  throw  the  doubts  of 
man; 

Impassion'd  logic,  which  outran 
The  hearer  in  its  fiery  course ; 

High  nature  amorous  of  the  good, 
But  touch'd  with  no  ascetic  gloom ; 
And  passion  pure  in  snowy  bloom 

Thro'  all  the  years  of  April  blood; 

A  love  of  freedom  rarely  felt. 
Of  freedom  in  her  regal  seat 
Of    England;    not    the    school-boy 
heat, 

The  blind  hysterics  of  the  Celt ; 

And  manhood  fused  with  female  grace 
In    such   a   sort,   the    child    would 

twine 
A  trustful  hand,  unask'd,  in  thine, 

And  find  his  comfort  in  thy  face ; 

All  these  have  been,  and  thee  mine 
eyes 
Have  look'd  on:  if  they  look'd  in 

vain, 
My  shame  is  greater  who  remain, 
Nor  let  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise. 

cix. 

Thy  converse  drew  us  with  delight, 
The  men  of  rathe  and  riper  years  : 
The  feeble  soul,  a  haunt  of  fears, 

Forgot  his  weakness  in  thy  sight. 

On  thee  the  loyal-hearted  hung. 

The   proud   was   half    disarm'd    of 

pride, 
Nor  cared  the  serpent  at  thy  side 

To  flicker  with  his  double  tongue. 

The  stern  were  mild  when  thou  wert 

by, 

The  flippant  put  himself  to  school 
And  heard  thee,  and  the  brazen  fool 
Was  soften'd,  and  he  knew  not  why ; 

While  I,  thy  dearest,  sat  apart, 
And  felt  thy  triumph  was  as  mine  ; 
And   loved   them    more,   that   they 
were  thine, 

fhe  graceful  tact,  the  Christian  art; 


Not  mine  the  sweetness  or  the  skill 
But  mine  the  love  that  will  not  tire, 
And,  born  of  love,  the  vague  desire 

That  spurs  an  imitative  will. 
ex. 

The  churl  in  spirit,  up  or  down 
Along  the  scale  of  ranks,  thro'  all. 
To  him  who  grasps  a  golden  ball. 

By  blood  a  king,  at  heart  a  clown ; 

The  churl  in  spirit,  howe'er  he  veil 
His   want   in  forms    for    fashion's 

sake, 
Will  let  his  coltish  nature  break 

At  seasons  thro'  the  gilded  pale  ; 

For  who  can  always  act  ?  but  he, 
To  whom  a  thousand  memories  call. 
Not  being  less  but  more  than  all 

The  gentleness  he  seem'd  to  be. 

Best  seem'd  the   thing  he  was,  and 
join'd 
Each  oflice  of  the  social  hour 
To  noble  manners,  as  the  flower 

And  native  growth  of  noble  mind ; 

Nor  ever  narrowness  or  spite. 
Or  villain  fancy  fleeting  by, 
Drew  in  the  expression  of  an  eye. 

Where  God  and  Nature  met  in  light ; 

And  thus  he  bore  without  abuse 
The  grand  old  name  of  gentleman. 
Defamed  by  every  charlatan, 

And  soil'd  with  all  ignoble  use. 

CXI. 

High  wisdom  holds  my  wisdom  less, 
That   I,  who  gaze   with  temperate 

eyes 
On  glorious  insufficiencies. 

Set  light  by  narrower  perfectness. 

But  thou,  that  fillest  all  the  room 
Of  all  my  love,  art  reason  why 
I  seem  to  cast  a  careless  eye 

On  souls,  the  lesser  lords  of  doom. 

For    what    wert    thou.?     some    norel 
power 
Sprang  up  forever  at  a  touch, 
And  hope  could  never    hope    too 
much. 
In  watching  thee  from  hour  to  hour. 


212 


IN  MEMO RT AM. 


Large  elements  in  order  brought, 
And  tracks  of   calm  from   tempest 

made, 
And  world-wide  fluctuation  sway'd 

In  vassal  tides  that  follow'd  thought. 

CXII. 

Pis  held  that  sorrow  makes  us  wise  ; 

Vet  how  much  wisdom  sleeps  with 
thee 

Which  not  alone  had  guided  me, 
But  served  the  seasons  that  may  rise  ; 

For  can  I  doubt  who  knew  thee  keen 
In  intellect,  with  force  and  skill 
To  strive,  to  fashion,  to  fulfil — 

I  doubt  not  what  thou  wouldst  have 
been : 

A  life  in  civic  action  warm, 
A  soul  on  highest  mission  sent, 
A  potent  voice  of  Parliament, 

A  pillar  steadfast  in  the  storm. 

Should  licensed  boldness  gather  force. 
Becoming,  when  the  time  has  birth, 
A  lever  to  uplift  the  earth 

And  roll  it  in  another  course, 

"With  thousand  shocks  that  come  and 

go, 
"With  agonies,  with  energies, 
"With  overthrowings,  and  with  cries, 
And  undulations  to  and  fro. 


"Who  loves  not  Knowledge  ?     "Who 
shall  rail 
Against  her  beauty  ?    May  she  mix 
With  men  and  prosper  !    Who  shall 
fix 
Her  pillars  ?    Let  her  work  prevail. 

But  on  her  forehead  sits  a  fire  : 
She  sets  her  forward  countenance 
And  leaps  into  the  future  chance. 

Submitting  all  things  to  desire. 

Half-grown  as  yet,  a  child,  and  vain, 
She  cannot  fight  the  fear  of  death. 
What   is  she,   cut    from    love   and 
faith, 

But  some  wild  Pallas  from  the  brain 


Of  Demons .-'  fiery-hot  to  burst 
All  barriers  in  her  onward  race 
For    power.      Let    her    know    het 
place  ; 

She  is  the  second,  not  the  first. 

A  higher  hand  must  make  her  mild, 
If  all  be  not  in  vain :  and  guide 
Her  footsteps,  moving  side  by  side 

With  wisdom,  like  the  younger  child  i 

For  she  is  earthly  of  the  mind. 
But  Wisdom  heavenly  of  the  soul. 
O  friend,  who  earnest  to  thy  goal 

So  early,  leaving  me  behind, 

I  would  the   great  world  grew  like 
thee. 
Who  grewest  not  alone  in  power 
And  knowledge,   but  by  year  and 
hour 
In  reverence  and  in  charity. 

CXIV. 

Now  fades  the  last  long   streak  of 
snow, 
Now  bourgeons  every  maze  of  qufck 
About   the   flowering   squares,   and 
thick 
By  ashen  roots  the  violets  blow. 

Now  rings  the  woodland    loud    and 
long, 
The  distance  takes  a  lovelier  hue, 
And  drown'd  in  yonder  living  blue 

The  lark  becomes  a  sightless  song. 

Now  dance   the  lights  on  lawn  and 
lea. 
The    flocks    are   whiter   down  the 

vale. 
And  milkier  every  milky  sail 
On  winding  stream  or  distant  sea ; 

Where    now    the    seamew   pipes,   or 
dives 
In  yonder  gleaming  green,  and  fly 
The  happy  birds  that  change  their 
sky 
To  build  and  brood;   that  live  their 
lives 


TN  ME  MO  RT AM. 


2\l 


From  land  to  land ;  and  in  my  breast 
Spring  wakens  too  ;  and  my  regret 
Becomes  an  April  violet, 

And  buds  and  blossoms  like  the  rest. 

cxv. 
Is  it,  then,  regret  for  buried  time 
That  keeulier  in  sweet  April  wakes, 
And  meets  the  year,  and  gives  and 
takes 
The  colors  of  the  crescent  prime  ? 

Not  all ;  the  songs,  the  stirring  air, 
The  life  re-orient  out  of  dust, 
Cry  thro'  the  sense  to  hearten  trust 

In  that  which  made  the  world  so  fair. 

Not  all  regret :  the  face  will  shine 
Upon  me,  while  I  muse  alone  ; 
And  that  dear  voice   I  once  have 
known 

Still  speak  to  me  of  me  and  mine  : 

Yet  less  of  sorrow  lives  in  me 

For  days  of  happy  commune  dead ; 
Less  yearning  for  the  friendship  fled. 

Than  some  strong  bond  which  is  to  be. 

cxvi. 

O  DAYS  and  hours,  your  work  r§  this, 
To  hold  me  from  my  proper  place, 
A  little  while  from  his  embrace. 

For  fuller  gain  of  after  bliss ; 

That  out  of  distance  might  ensue 
Desire  of  nearness  doubly  sweet ; 
And  unto  meeting  when  we  meet, 

Delight  a  hundred-fold  accrue. 

For  every  grain  of  sand  that  runs. 
And  every  span  of  shade  that  steals, 
And  every  kiss  of  toothed  wheels. 

And  all  the  courses  of  the  suns. 


Contemplate  all  this  work  of  Time, 
The  giant  laboring  in  his  youth  ; 
Nor  dream  of  human  love  and  truth. 

As  dying  Nature's  earth  and  lime ; 

But  trust  that  those  we  call  the  dead 
Are  breathers  of  an  ampler  day, 


Forever  nobler  ends.     They  say, 
The  solid  earth  whereon  we  tread 

In  tracts  of  fluent  heat  began, 

And  grew  to  seeming-random  forms, 
The  seeming  prey  of  cyclic  storms 

Till  at  the  last  arose  the  man; 

Who  throve  and  branch'd  from  clime 
to  clime 
The  herald  of  a  higher  race, 
And  of  himself  in  higher  place 

If  so  he  type  this  work  of  time 

Within  himself,  from  more  to  more ; 
Or,  crown'd  with  attributes  of  woe 
Like  glories,  move  his  course,  and 
show 

That  life  is  not  as  idle  ore, 

But  iron  dug  from  central  gloom. 
And  heated  hot  with  burning  fears, 
And  dipt  in  batha  of  hissing  tears, 

And  batter'd  with  the  shocks  of  doom 

To  shape  and  use.    Arise  and  fly 
The  reeling  Faun,  the  sensual  feast ; 
Move  upward,  working  out  the  beast. 

And  let  the  ape  and  tiger  die. 


Doors,  where  my  heart  was  used  to 
beat 
So  quickly,  not  as  one  that  weeps 
I  come  once  more  ;  the  city  sleeps  : 

I  smell  the  meadow  in  the  street  ; 

I  hear  a  chirp  of  birds  ;  I  see 

Betwixt  the  black  fronts  long  with- 
drawn 
A  light-blue  lane  of  early  dawn. 

And  think  of  early  days  and  thee. 

And  bless  thee,  for  thy  lips  are  bland. 
And  bright  the  friendship  of  thine 

eye : 
And  in  my  thoughts  with  scarce  a 
sigh 
I  take  the  pressure  of  thine  hand 


2^4 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


I  TRUST  I  have  not  wasted  breath  ; 
I  think  we  are  not  wholly  brain, 
Magnetic  mockeries ;  not  in  vain, 

Like  Paul  with  beasts,  I  fought  with 
Death. 

Not  only  cunning  casts  in  clay : 

I^et  Science  prove  we  are,  and  then 
What  matters  Science  unto  men. 

At  least  to  me  ?     I  would  not  stay. 

Let  him,  the  wiser  man  who  springs 
Hereafter,  up  from  childhood  shape 
His  action,  like  the  greater  ape, 

But  I  was  born  to  other  things. 

cxx. 

Sad  Hesper  o'er  the  buried  sun, 
And  ready,  thou,  to  die  with  him 
Thou  watchest  all  things  ever  dim 

And  dimmer,  and  a  glory  done: 

The  team  is  loosen'd  from  the  wain. 
The  boat  is  drawn  upon  the  shore ; 
Thou  listenest  to  the  closing  door, 

And  life  is  darken'd  in  the  brain. 

Bright  Phosphor,  fresher  for  the  night, 
By  thee    the   world's  great  work  is 

heard 
Beginning,  and  the  wakeful  bird  : 

Behind  thee  comes  the  greater  light : 

The  market  boat  is  on  the  stream. 
And  voices  hail  it  from  the  brink; 
Thou  hear'st  the    village    hammer 
clink. 

And  see'st  the  moving  of  the  team. 

oweet  Hesper-Phosphor,  double  name 
For  what  is  one,  the  first,  the  last, 
Thou,  like  my  present  and  my  past. 

Thy  place  is   changed;  thou  art  the 
same. 

CXXI. 

J,  WAST  thou  with  me,  dearest,  then, 
While  I  rose  up  against  my  doom. 
And  yearn'd  to  burst  the  folded 
gloom 

fo  bare  the  eternal  Heavens  again. 


To  feel  once  more,  in  placid  awe, 
The  strong  imagination  roll 
A  sphere  of  stars  about  my  soul. 

In  all  her  motion  one  with  law. 

If  thou  wert  with  me,  and  the  grave 
Divide  us  not,  be  with  me  now, 
And  enter  in  at  breast  and  brow, 

Till  all  my  blood,  a  fuller  wave, 

Be  quickened  with  a  livelier  breath, 
And  live  an  inconsiderate  boy, 
As  in  the  former  flash  of  joy, 

I  slip  the  thoughts  of  life  and  death: 

And  all  the  breeze  of  Fancy  blows. 
And  every  dew-drop  paints  a  bow, 
The  wizard  lightnings  deeply  glow, 

And  every  thought  breaks  out  a  rose. 


There  rolls  the  deep  where  grew  the 
tree. 
O   earth,  what   changes    thou    hast 

seen! 
There  where  the  long  street  roars, 
hath  been 
The  stillness  of  the  central  sea. 

The  hills  are  shadows,  and  they  flow 
From   form   to   form,   and   nothing 

stands  ; 
They  melt  like  mist,  the  solid  lands, 
Like  clouds  they  shape  themselves  and 
go.  , 

But  in  my  spirit  will  I  dwell, 
And  dream  my  dream,  and  hold  it 

true; 
For  tho'  my  lips  may  breathe  adieu, 

I  cannot  think  the  thing  farewell. 

^  \      CXXIII 

That  which  we  dare  invoke  to  bless ; 
Our    dearest  faith  •,   our  ghastliest 

doubt ; 
He,  They,  One,  All ;   within,   with- 
out ; 
The    Power   in    darkness    whom    we 
guess ; 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


215 


I  found  Him  not  in  world  or  sun, 
Or  eagle's  wing,  or  insect's  eye  : 
Nor  thro'   the   questions   men  may 
try, 

The  petty  cobwebs  we  have  spun  : 

If  e'er,  when  faith  had  fall'n  asleep, 
I  heard  a  voice,  "  Believe  no  more," 
And  heard  an  ever-breaking  shore 

That  tumbled  in  the  Godless  deep  : 

^   warmth   within   the    breast   would 
melt 
-'The  freezing  reasons'  colder  part. 
And  like  a  man  in  wrath  the  heart 
Stood  up  and  answer'd,  "  I  have  felt." 

No,  like  a  child  in  doubt  and  fear  : 
But  that  blind    clamor    made    me 

wise ; 
Then  was  I  as  a  child  that  cries. 

But,  crying,  knows  his  father  near; 

And  what  I  am  beheld  again 

What  is,  and  no  man  understands ; 
And  out  of  darkness  came  the  hands 
That    reach    thro'   nature,    moulding 
men. 

cxxiv. 
Whatever  I  have  said  or  sung. 
Some   bitter   notes   my  harp  would 

give. 
Yea,  tho'  there  often  seem'd  to  live 
A  contradiction  on  the  tongue. 

Yet  Hope  had  never  lost  her  youth  : 
She    did    but    look    thro'    dimmer 

eyes  ; 
Or  Love  but   play'd   with   gracious 
lies 
Because  he  felt  so  fix'd  in  truth : 

And  if  the  song  were  full  of  care. 
He  breathed  the  spirit  of  the  song  ; 
And  if  the  words  were  sweet  and 
strong, 

He  set  his  royal  signet  there  ; 

^.biding  with  me  till  I  sail 
To  seek  thee  on  the  mystic  deeps, 
And  this  electric  force,  that  keeps 

|L  thousand  pulses  dancing,  fail. 


Love  is  and  was  my  Lord  and  King, 
And  in  his  presence  I  attend 
To  hear  the  tidings  of  my  friend. 

Which  every  hour  his  couriers  bring. 

Love  is  and  was  my  King  and  Lord, 
And  will  be,  tho'  as  yet  I  keep 
Within  his  court  on  earth,  and  sleep 

Encompass'd  by  his  faithful  guard, 

And  hear  at  times  a  sentinel 

Who  moves  about  from  place  to 
place. 

And  whispers  to  the  worlds  of  space, 
In  the  deep  night,  that  all  is  well. 


CXXVI. 

And  all  is  well,  tho'  faith  and  form 
Be  sunder'd  in  the  night  of  fear  : 
Well  roars  the  storm  to  those  that 
hear 

A  deeper  voice  across  the  storm. 

Proclaiming  social  truth  shall  spread, 
And  justice,  ev'n  tho'  thrice  again 
The  red  fool-fury  of  the  Seine 

Should  pile  her  barricades  with  dead. 

But  ill  for  him  that  wears  a  crown. 
And  him,  the  lazar,  in  his  rags : 
They  tremble,  the  sustaining  crags ; 

The  spires  of  ice  are  toppled  down. 

And  molten  up,  and  roar  in  flood ; 
The  fortress  crashes  from  on  high, 
The  brute  earth  lightens  to  the  sky. 

And  the  great  ^Eon  sinks  in  bleod. 

And  compass'd  by  the  fires  of  Hell ; 
While  thou,  dear  spirit,  happy  star, 
O'erlook'st  the  tumult  from  afar. 

And  smilest,  knowing  all  is  well. 


The  love  that  rose  on  stronger  wings, 
Unpalsied  when  we  met  with  Death, 
Is  comrade  of  the  lesser  faith 

That  sees  the  course  of  human  things. 


2l6 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


No  doubt  vast  eddies  in  the  flood 
Of  onward  time  shall  yet  be  made, 
And  throned  races  may  degrade  : 

Yet,  O  ye  mysteries  of  good, 

Wild  Hours  that  fly  with  Hope  and 
Fear, 

If  all  your  office  had  to  do 

With  old  results  that  look  like  new  ; 
If  this  were  all  your  mission  here. 

To  draw,  to  sheathe  a  useless  sword, 
To  fool  the  crowd  with  glorious  lies. 
To  cleave  a  creed  in  sects  and  cries, 

To  change  the  bearing  of  a  word, 

To  shift  an  arbitrary  pov/er, 

To  cramp  the  student  at  his  desk. 
To  make  old  bareness  picturesque 

And  tuft  with  grass  a  feudal  tower  ; 

Why  then  my  scorn  might  well  descend 
On  you  and  yours.     I  see  in  part 
That  all,  as  in  some  piece  of  art, 

Is  toil  cooperant  to  an  end. 

CXXVIII. 

Dear  friend,  far  off,  my  lost  desire, 
So  far,  so  near  in  woe  and  weal  ; 
O  loved  the  most,  when  most  I  feel 

Tfiere  is  a  lower  and  a  higher  ; 

Known  and  unknown ;  human,  divine  ; 

Sweet  human  hand  and  lips  and  eye  ; 

Dear  heavenly  friend  that  canst  not 
die. 
Mine,  mine,  forever,  ever  mine ; 

Strange  friend,  past,  present,  and  to 
be  ; 

Love  deeplier,  darklier  understood; 

Behold,  I  dream  a  dream  of  good. 
And  mingle  all  the  world  with  thee. 


Thy  voice  is  on  the  rolling  air ; 

I  hear  thee  where  the  waters  run ; 

Thou  standest  in  the  rising  sun, 
And  in  the  setting  thou  art  fair. 


What  art  thou  then  ?     I  cannot  guess ; 
But  tho'  I  seem  in  star  and  flower 
To  feel  thee  some  diffusive  power, 

I  do  not  therefore  love  thee  less : 

My  love  involves  the  love  before  ; 

My  love  is  vaster  passion  now  ; 

Tho'  mix'd  with  God  and  Nature 
thou, 
I  seem  to  love  thee  more  and  more. 

Far  off  thou  art,  but  ever  nigh : 
I  have  thee  still,  and  I  rejoice  ; 
I  prosper,  circled  with  thy  voice ; 

I  shall  not  lose  thee  tho'  I  die. 


^cxxx. 

O  LIVING  will  that  shalt  endure 

When  all   that  seems    shall  suffer 

*      shock. 
Rise  in  the  spiritual  rock. 

Flow  thro'  our  deeds  and  make -them 
pure, 

That  we  may  lift  from  out  of  dust 
*    A  VQJce  as  unto  him  that  hears, 
A  cry  above  the  conquer'd  years 
To  one  that  with  us  works,  and  trusts 

With  faith  that  comes  of  self-contror, 
i  The  truths  that  never  can  be  proved 

Until  we  close  with  all  we  loved. 
And  all  we  flow  from,  soul  in  soul. 

O  TRUE  and  tried,  so  well  and  long. 
Demand  not  thou  a  marriage  lay ; 
In  that  it  is  thy  marriage  day 

Is  music  more  than  any  song. 

Nor  have  I  felt  so  much  of  bliss 
Since  first  he  told  me  that  he  loved 
A  daughter  of  our  house  ;  nor  proved 

Since  that  dark  day  a  day  like  this  ; 

Tho'  I  since  then  have  number'd  o'ei 
Some  thrice  three  years  :   they  wen' 

and  came, 
Remade  the  blood  and  changed  the 
frame, 
And  yet  is  love  not  less,  but  more  ; 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


217 


No  longer  caring  to  embalm 
In  dying  songs  a  dead  regret, 
But  like  a  statue  solid-set, 

And  moulded  in  colossal  calm. 

Regret  is  dead,  but  love  is  more 

Than  in  the  summers  that  are  flown, 
For  I  myself  with  these  have  grown 

To  something  greater  than  before  ; 

Which  makes  appear  the  songs  I  made 
As  echoes  out  of  weaker  times, 
As  half  but  idle  brawling  rhymes, 

The  sport  of  random  sun  and  shade. 

But  where  is  she,  the  bridal  flower, 
That  must  be  made  a  wife  ere  noon  ? 
She  enters,  glowing  like  the  moon 

Of  Eden  on  its  bridal  bower : 

On  me  she  bends  her  blissful  eves, 
And  then  on  thee  ;  they  meet  thy 

look 
And  brighten  like  the  star  that  shook 

Betwixt  the  palms  of  paradise. 

O  when  her  life  was  yet  in  bud. 

He  too  foretold  the  perfect  rose.      * 
For    thee  she  grew,   for  thee  she 
grows 

Forever,  and  as  fair  as  good. 

And  thou  art  worthy ;   full  of  power  ,, 
As  gentle  ;  liberal-minded,  great, 
Consistent ;  wearing  all  that  weight 

Of  learning  lightly  like  a  flower. 

But  now  set  out  :  the  moon  is  near. 
And  I  must  give  away  the  bride  ; 
She  fears  not,  or  with  thee  beside 

A.nd  me  behind  her,  will  not  fear  : 

For  I  that  danced  her  on  my  knee. 
That  watch'd  her  on  her  nurse's  arm. 
That  shielded  all  her  life  from  harm. 

At  last  must  part  with  her  to  thee  ; 

Now  waiting  to  be  made  a  wife, 
Her  feet,  my  darling,  on  the  dead  ; 
Their    pensive    tablets    round   her 
head. 

And  the  most  living  words  of  life 


Breathed  in  her  ear.     The  ring  is  on. 
The     "  wilt    thou,"    answer'd,   and 

again 
The   "  wilt  thou  "  ask'd,  till  out  of 
twain 
Her  sweet  "  I  will  "  has  made  ye  one. 

Now  sign  your  names,  which  shall  be 
read, 
Mute  symbols  of  a  joyful  morn, 
By  village  eyes  as  yet  unborn ; 

The  names  are  sign'd,  and  overhead 

Begins  the  clash  and  clang  that  tells 
The  joy  to  every  wandering  breeze; 
The  blind  wall  rocks,  and  on  the 
trees 

The  dead  leaf  trembles  to  the  bells. 

O  happy  hour,  and  happier  hours 
Await  them.     Many  a  merry  face 
Salutes  them — maidens  of  the  place. 

That  pelt  us  in  the  porch  with  flowers. 

O  happy  hour,  behold  the  bride 

With  him  to  whom  her  hand  I  gave. 
They  leave  the  porch,  they  pass  the 
grave 

That  has  to-day  its  sunny  side. 

To-day  the  grave  is  bright  for  me, 
For  them  the  light  of  life  increased. 
Who  stay  to  share  the  morning  feast. 

Who  rest  to-night  beside  the  sea. 

Let  all  my  genial  spirits  advance 
To  meet  and  greet  a  whiter  sun  ; 
My  drooping  memory  will  not  shun 

The  foaming  grape  of  Eastern  France. 

It  circles  round,  and  fancy  plays, 
And  hearts  are  warm'd,  and  faces 

bloom, 
As   drinking   health    to    bride   and 
groom 
We  wish  them  store  of  happy  days. 

Nor  count  me  all  to  blame  if  I 
Conjecture  of  a  stiller  guest. 
Perchance,   perchance,    among    the 
rest, 

And,  tho'  in  silence,  wishing  joy. 


2l5 


IN-  MEMORIAM. 


But  they  must  go,  the  time  draws  on, 
And  those  white-favor'd  horses  wait ; 
They  rise,  but  linger  ;  it  is  late ; 

Farewell,  we  kiss,  and  they  are  gone. 

A  shade  falls  on  us  like  the  dark 
From  little  cloudlets  on  the  grass, 
But  sweeps  away  as  out  we  pass 

To  range  the  woods,  to  roam  the  park, 

Discussing  how  their  courtship  grew. 
And  talk  of  others  that  are  wed. 
And  how  she  look'd,  and  what  she 
said. 

And  back  we  come  at  fall  of  dew. 

Again  the  feast,  the  speech  the  glee, 
The  shade  of  passing  thought,  the 
*     wealth 
Of  words  and  wit,  the  double  health, 
The    crowning  cup,  the    three-times- 
three, 

And  last  the  dance  ; — till  I  retire  : 
Dumb  is  that  tower  which  spake  so 

loud, 
'  And  high  in  heaven  the  streaming 

cloud. 
And  on  the  downs  a  rising  fire  ; 

And  rise,  O  moon,  from  yonder  down, 
,  Till  over  down  and  over  dale 

All  night  the  shining  vapor  sail 
And  pass  the  silent-lighted  town, 

The  white-faced   halls,   the    glancing 

rills. 
And  catch  at  every  mountain  head, 
»    And  o'er  the  friths  that  branch  and 

spread 
Their  sleeping  silver  thro'  the  hills ; 


And  touch  with  shade  the  bridal  doors, 
With   tender    glooni   the   roof,   the 
•    wall ; 
And  breaking  let  the  splendor  fall 

To  spangle  all  the  happy  shores  - 

By  which  they  rest,  and  ocean  sounds, 
And,  star  and  system  rolling  past, 

*  A  soul  shall  draw  from  out  the  vast 
And  strike  his  being  into  bounds, 

And,  moved  thro'  life  of  lower  phase, 

*  Result  in  man.  be  born  and  think, 
And  act  and  love,  a  closer  link 

Betwixt  us  and  the  crowning  race 

Of  those  that,  eye  to  eye,  shall  look 
On  knowledge ;  under  whose  com> 
mand 

*  Is  Earth  and  Earth's,  and  in  theil 

hand 
Is  Nature  like  an  open  book  ; 

No  longer  half-akin  to  brute, 
.    For  all  we  thought  and  loved  anci 
did, 
And  hoped,  and  suffer'd,  is  but  seecl 
Of  what  in  them  is  flower  and  fruit ; 

Whereof  the  man,  that  with  me  trod 
I    This  planet,  was  a  noble  type 

Appearing  ere  the  times  were  ripe, 
That  friend  of  mine  who  lives  in  God, 

That  God,  which  ever  lives  and  loves, 
•    One  God,  one  law,  one  element. 

And  one  far-off  divine  event. 
To  which  the  whole  creation  moves. 


MAUD.  219 


MAUD,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


M  AiUD. 
I. 


I  HATE  the  dreadful  hollow  behind  the  little  wood, 
Its  lips  in  the  field  above  are  dabbled  with  blood-red  heat 
The  red-ribb'd  ledges  drip  with  a*ilent  horror  of  blood, 
And  Echo  there,  whatever  is  ask'd  "fier,  answers  "  Death. 


For  there  in  the  ghastly  pit  long  since  a  body  was  found. 
His  who  had  given  me  life — O  father  !    O  God  !  was  it  well  ? — 
Mangled,  and  flatten'd,  and  crush'd,  and  dinted  into  the  ground 
There  yet  lies  the  rock  that  fell  with  him  when  he  fell. 


Did  he  fling  himself  down  ?  who  knows  ?  for  a  vast  speculation  had  far 
And  ever  he  mutter'd  and  madden'd,  and  ever  wann'd  with  despair^ 
And  out  he  walk'd  when  the  wind  like  a  broken  worldling  wail'd,  1 

And  the  flying  gold  of  the  ruin'd  woodlands  drove  thro'  the  air. 

4- 

I  remember  the  time,  for  the  roots  of  my  hair  were  stirr'd 

By  a  shuffled  step,  by  a  dead  weight  trail'd,  by  a  whisper'd  fright, 

And  my  pulses  closed  their  gates  with  a  shock  on  my  heart  as  I  heard     ' 

The  shrill-edged  shriek  of  a  mother  divide  the  shuddering  night. 


Villany  somewhere  !  whose  ?    One  says,  we  are  villains  all. 
Not  he  :  his  honest  fame  should  at  least  by  me  be  maintain'd  : 
But  that  old  man,  now  lord  of  the  broad  estate  and  the  Hall, 
Dropt  off  gorged  from  a  scheme  that  had  left  us  flaccid  and  drain'd. 


Why  do  they  prate  of  the  blessings  of  Peace  ?  we  have  made  them  a  curse. 

Pickpockets,  each  hand  lusting  for  all  that  is  not  its  own  ; 

And  lust  of  gain,  in  the  spirit  of  Cain,  is  it  better  or  worse 

Than  the  heart  of  the  citizen  hissing  in  war  on  his  own  hearthstone  ? 


220  MAUD. 


But  these  are  the  days  of  advance,  the  works  of  the  men  of  mind, 
When  who  but  a  fool  would  have  faith  in  a  tradesman's  ware  or  his  word  ? 
Is  it  peace  or  war  ?     Civil  war,  as  I  think,  and  that  of  a  kind 
The  viler,  as  underhand,  not  openly  bearing  the  sword. 

8. 

Sooner  or  later  I  too  may  passively  take  the  print 

Of  the  golden  age — why  not  ?    I  have  neither  hope  nor  trust ; 

May  make  my  heart  as  a  millstone,  set  my  face  as  a  flint, 

Cheat  and  be  cheated,  and  die  :  who  knows  ?  we  are  ashes  and  dust. 


Peace  sitting  under  her  olive,  and  slurring  the  days  gone  by, 

When  the  poor  are  hovell'd  and  hustled  together,  each  sex,  like  swine. 

When  only  the  ledger  lives,  and  when  only  not  all  men  lie  ; 

Peace  in  her  vineyard — yes ! — but  a  company  forges  the  wine. 

la 

And  the  vitriol  madness  flushes  up  in  the  ruffian's  head, 
Till  the  filthy  by-lane  rings  to  the  yell  of  the  trampled  wife, 
While  chalk  and  alum  and  plaster  are  sold  to  the  poor  for  breads 
And  the  spirit  of  murder  works  in  the  very  means  of  life. 


And  Sleep  must  lie  down  arm'd,  for  the  villanous  centre-bits 
Grind  on  the  wakeful  ear  in  the  hush  of  the  moonless  nights. 
While  another  is  cheating  the  sick  of  a  few  last  gasps,  as  he  sitS 
To  pestle  a  poison'd  poison  behind  his  crimson  lights. 


When  a  Mammonite  mother  kills  her  babe  for  a  burial  fee, 
And  Timour-Mammon  grins  on  a  pile  of  children's  bones, 
Is  it  peace  or  war  ?  better,  war !  loud  war  by  land  and  by  sea, 
War  with  a  thousand  battles,  and  shaking  a  hundred  throne%. 

13- 

For  I  trust  if  an  enemy's  fleet  came  yonder  round  by  the  hill. 
And  the  rushing  battle-bolt  sang  from  the  three-decker  out  of  the  foam, 
That  the  smooth-faced  snub-nosed  rogue  would  leap  from  his  counter  and  tiUj 
And  strike,  if  he  could,  were  it  but  with  his  cheating  yardwand,  home. — 

14. 

What !  am  I  raging  alone  as  my  father  raged  in  his  mood  ? 
Must  /  too  creep  to  the  hollow  and  dash  myself  down  and  die 
Rather  than  hold  by  the  law  that  I  made,  nevermore  to  brood 
Oi»  a  horror  of  shatter'd  limbs  and  a  wretched  swindler's  lie  ? 


MAUD.  22  i 


IS- 

Would  there  be  sorrow  for  me  ?  there  was  lave  in  the  passionate  shriekj 
Love  for  the  silent  thing  that  had  made  false  haste  to  the  grave — 
Wrapt  in  a  cloak,  as  I  saw  him,  and  thought  he  would  rise  and  speak 
And  rave  at  the  lie  and  the  liar,  ah  God,  as  he  used  to  rave. 

i6. 

I  am  sick  of  the  Hall  and  the  hill,  I  am  sick  of  the  moor  and  the  main. 
Why  should  I  stay }  can  a  sweeter  chance  ever  come  to  me  here  } 
O,  having  the  nerves  of  motion  as  well  as  the  nerves  of  pain. 
Were  it  not  wise  if  I  fled  from  the  place  and  the  pit  and  the  fear  ? 

17. 

There  are  workmen  up  at  the  Hall :  they  are  coming  back  from  abroad; 
The  dark  old  place  will  be  gilt  by  the  touch  of  a  millionnaire  : 
I  have  heard,  I  know  not  whence,  of  the  singular  beauty  of  Maud; 
I  play'd  with  the  girl  when  a  child  ;  she  promised  then  to  be  fair. 

18. 

Maud  with  her  venturous  climbings  and  tumbles  and  childish  escapes, 
Maud  the  delight  of  the  village,  the  ringing  joy  of  the  Hall, 
Maud  with  her  sweet  purse-mouth  when  my  father  dangled  the  grapes, 
Maud  the  beloved  of  my  mother,  the  moon-faced  darling  of  all, — 

19. 

What  is  she  now  ?    My  dreams  are  bad.     She  may  bring  me  a  curse. 
No,  there  is  fatter  game  on  the  moor  ;  she  will  let  me  alone. 
Thanks,  for  the  fiend  best  knows  whether  woman  or  man  be  the  worse. 
I  will  bury  myself  in  my  books,  and  the  Devil  may  pipe  to  his  own. 

II. 

Long  have  I  sigh'd  for  a  calm  :  God  grant  I  may  find  it  at  last ! 

It  will  never  be  broken  bv  Maud,  she  has  neither  savor  nor  salt. 

But  a  cold  and  clear-cut  face,  as  I  found  when  her  carriage  past. 

Perfectly  beautiful :  let  it  be  granted  her :  where  is  the  fault } 

All  that  I  saw  (for  her  eyes  were  downcast,  not  to  be  seen) 

Faultily  faultless,  icily  regular,  splendidly  null, 

Dead  perfection,  no  more ;  nothing  more,  if  it  had  not  been 

For  a  chance  of  travel,  a  paleness,  an  hour's  defect  of  the  rose. 

Or  an  underlip,  you  may  call  it  a  little  too  ripe,  too  full. 

Or  the  least  delicate  aquiline  curve  in  a  sensitive  nose, 

From  which  I  escaped  heart-free,  with  the  least  little  touch  of  spleen. 

IIL 

Cold  and  clear-cut  face,  why  come  you  so  cruelly  meek, 
Breaking  a  slumber  in  which  all  spleenful  folly  was  drown'd, 
Pale  with  the  golden  beam  of  an  eyelash  dead  on  the  cheek, 
Passionless,  pale,  cold  face,  star-sweet  on  a  gloom  profound ; 


222  MAUD. 


Womanlike,  taking  revenge  too  deep  for  a  transient  wrong 
Done  but  in  thought  to  your  beauty,  and  ever  as  pale  as  before 
Growing  and  fading  and  growing  upon  me  without  a  sound, 
Luminous,  gemlike,  ghostlike,  deathlike,  half  the  night  long 
Growing  and  fading  and  growing,  till  I  could  bear  it  no  more, 
But  arose,  and  all  by  myself  in  my  own  dark  garden  ground, 
Listening  now  to  the  tide  in  its  broad-flung  shipwrecking  roar, 
Now  to  the  scream  of  a  madden'd  beach  dragg'd  down  by  the  wave, 
Walk'd  in  a  wintry  wind  by  a  ghastly  glimmer,  and  found 
The  shining  daffodil  dead,  and  Orion  low  in  his  grave. 

IV. 


A  MILLION  emeralds  break  from  the  ruby-budded  lime 
In  the  little  grove  where  I  sit — ah,  wherefore  cannot  I  be 
Like  things  of  the  season,  gay,  like  the  bountiful  season  bland, 
When  the  far-off  sa41  is  blown  by  the  breeze  of  a  softer  clime, 
Half^lost  in  the  liquid  azure  bloom  of  a  crescent  of  sea, 
The  silent  sapphire-spangled  marriage  ring  of  the  land  ? 


Belf)w  me,  there,  is  the  village,  and  looks  how  quiet  and  small ! 
And  yet  bubbles  o'er  like  a  city,  with  gossip,  scandal,  and  spice ; 
And  Jack  on  his  alehouse  bench  has  as  many  lies  as  a  Czar ; 
And  here  on  the  landward  side,  by  a  red  rock,  glimmers  the  Hall ; 
And  up  in  the  high  Hall-garden  I  see  her  pass  like  a  light ; 
But  sorrow  seize  me  if  ever  that  light  be  my  leading  star  1 

3- 

When  have  I  bow'd  to  her  father  the  wrinkled  head  of  the  race  ? 
I  met  her  to-day  with  her  brother  but  no   to  her  brother  I  bow'd ; 
I  bow'd  to  his  lady- sister  as  she  rode  by  on  the  moor  ; 
But  the  fire  of  a  foolish  pride  flash'd  over  her  beautiful  face. 

0  child,  you  wrong  your  beauty,  believe  it,  in  being  so  proud  ; 
Your  father  has  wealth  well-gotten,  and  I  am  nameless  and  poor. 

4- 

1  keep  but  a  man  and  a  maid,  ever  ready  to  slander  and  steal ; 
I  know  it,  and  smile  a  hard-set  smile,  like  a  stoic,  or  like 

A  wiser  epicurean,  and  let  the  world  have  its  way  : 

For  nature  is  one  with  rapine,  a  harm  no  preacher  can  heal ; 

The  Mayfly  is  torn  by  the  swallow,  the  sparrow  spear'd  by  the  shrike 

And  the  whole  little  wood  where  I  sit  is  a  world  of  plunder  and  prey. 

5 

We  are  puppets,  Man  in  his  pride,  and  Beauty  fair  in  her  flower , 
Do  we  move  ourselves,  or  are  moved  by  an  unseen  hand  at  a  game 
That  pushes  us  off  from  the  board,  and  others  ever  succeed  ? 
Ah  yet,  we  cannot  be  kind  to  each  other  here  for  an  hour  ; 
We  whisper,  and  hint,  and  chuckle,  and  grin  at  a  brother's  shame; 
However  we  brave  it  out,  we  men  are  a  little  breed. 


MAUD 


--'3 


A  monstrous  eft  was  of  old  the  Lord  and  Master  of  Earth, 
For  him  did  his  high  sun  flame,  and  his  river  billowing  ran, 
And  he  felt  himself  in  his  force  to  be  Nature's  crowning  race. 
As  nine  months  go  to  the  shaping  an  infant  ripe  for  his  birth. 
So  many  a  million  of  ages  have  gone  to  the  making  of  man* 
He  now  is  first,  but  is  he  the  last  ?  is  he  not  too  base  ? 


\ 


The  man  of  science  himself  is  fonder  of  glory,  and  vain, 
An  eye  well-practised  in  nature,  a  spirit  bounded  and  poor; 
The  passionate  heart  of  the  poet  is  whirl'd  into  folly  and  vice. 
I  would  not  marvel  at  either,  but  keep  a  temperate  brain ; 
For  not  to  desire  or  admire,  if  a  man  could  learn  it,  were  more 
Than  to  walk  all  day  like  the  sultan  of  old  in  a  garden  of  spice. 

8. 
For  the  drift  of  the  Maker  is  dark,  an  Isis  hid  by  the  veil.  / 

Who  knows  the  ways  of  the  world,  how  God  will  bring  them  about  ?     / 
Our  planet  is  one,  the  suns  are  many,  the  world  is  wide.  | 

Shall  I  weep  if  a  Poland  fall  ?  shall  I  shriek  if  a  Hungary  fail  ?  | 

Or  an  infant  civilization  be  ruled  with  rod  or  with  knout?  j 

I  have  not  made  the  world,  and  He  that  made  it  will  guide.  \ 


Be  mine  a  philosopher's  life  in  the  quiet  woodland  ways, 

Where  if  I  cannot  be  gay  let  a  passionless  peace  be  my  lot, 

Far-off  from  the  clamor  of  liars  belied  in  the  hubbub  of  lies ; 

From  the  long-neck'd  geese  of  the  world  that  are  ever  hissing  dispraise. 

Because  their  natures  are  little,  and,  whether  he  heed  it  or  not, 

Where  each  man  walks  with  his  head  in  a  cloud  of  poisonous  flies. 


And  most  of  all  would  I  flee  from  the  cruel  madness  of  love, 
The  honey  of  poison-flowers  and  all  the  measureless  ill. 
Ah  Maud,  you  milkwhite  fawn,  you  are  all  unmeet  for  a  wife. 
Your  mother  is  mute  in  her  grave  as  her  image  in  marble  above 
Your  father  is  ever  in  London,  you  wander  about  at  your  will ; 
You  have  but  fed  on  the  roses,  and  lain  in  the  lilies  of  life. 


A  VOICE  by  the  cedar-tree. 

In  the  meadow  under  the  Hall ! 

She  is  singing  an  air  that  is  known  to 

me, 
A  passionate  ballad  gallant  and  gay, 
A  martial  song  like  a  trumpet's  call ! 
Singing  alone  in  the  morning  of  life, 


In  the  happy  morning  of  life  and  of  May 
Singing  of  men  that  in  battle  array, 
Ready  in  heart  and  ready  in  hand, 
March  with  banner  and  bugle  and  fiffe 
To  the  death,  for  their  native  land. 


Maud  with  her  exquisite  face, 
And  wild  voice  pealing  up  to  the  sunny 
sky. 


224 


MAUD. 


And  feet  like  sunny  gems  on  an  Eng- 
lish green, 

Maud  in  the  light  of  her  youth  and  her 
grace, 

Singing  of  Death,  and  of  Honor  that 
cannot  die, 

Till  I  well  could  weep  for  a  time  so 
sordid  and  mean. 

And  myself  so  languidand  base. 


Silence,  beautiful  voice  ! 

Be  still,  for  you  only  trouble  the  mind 

With  a  joy  in  which  I  cannot  rejoice, 

A  glory  I  shall  not  find. 

Still  !  I  will  hear  you  no  more, 

For  your  sweetness  hardly  leaves  me  a 

choice 
But  to  move  to  the  meadow  and  fall 

before 
Her  feet  on  the  meadow  grass,   and 

adore, 
Not  her,  who  is  neither  courtly  nor 

kind, 
Not  her,  not  her,  but  a  voice. 

VI. 


Morning  arises  stormy  and  pale, 
No  sun,  but  a  wannish  glare 
In  fold  upon  fold  of  hueless  cloud, 
And  the-  budded  peaks  of  the  wood 

are  bow'd 
Caught  and  cuff'd  by  -the  gale  : 
I  had  fancied  it  would  be  fair. 


Whom  but  Maud  should  I  meet 
Last  night,  when  the  sunset  burn'd 
On  the  blossom'd  gable-ends 
At  the  head  of  the  village  street, 
Whom  but  Maud  should  I  meet  ? 
And  she  touch'd  my  hand  with  a  smile 

so  sweet 
She  made  me  divine  amends 
For  a  courtesy  not  return'd. 


And  thus  a  delicate  spark 
Of  glowing  and  growing  light 


Thro'  the  livelong  hours  of  the  dark 
Kept  itself  warm  in  the  heart  of  mj 

dreams. 
Ready  to  burst  in  a  color'd  flame : 
Till  at  last,  when  the  morning  came 
In  a  cloud,  it  faded,  and  seems 
But  an  ashen-gray  delight. 

4- 
What  if  with  her  sunny  hair, 
And  smile  as  sunny  as  cold, 
She  meant  to  weave  me  a  snare 
Of  some  coquettish  deceit, 
Cleopatra-like  as  of  old 
To  entangle  me  when  we  met, 
To  have  her  lion  roll  in  a  silken  net, 
And  fawn  at  a  victor's  feet. 

Ah,  what  shall  I  be  at  fifty  \ 

Should  Nature  keep  me  alive,  ' 

If  I  find  the  world  so  bitter 
When  I  am  but  twenty-five  ? 
Yet,  if  she  were  not  a  cheat, 
If  Maud  were  all  that  she  seem'd, 
And  her  smile  were  all  that  I  dream'<i 
Then  the  world  were  not  so  bitter       ^ 
But  a  smile  could  make  it  sweet. 

6. 

What  if  tho'  her  eye  seem'd  full 
Of  a  kind  intent  to  me, 
What  if  that  dandy  despot,  he. 
That  jewell'd  mass  of  millinery, 
That  oil'd  and  curl'd  Assyrian  Bull 
Smelling  of  musk  and  of  insolence. 
Her  brother,  from  whom  I  keep  aloof, 
Who  wants  the  finer  politic  sense 
To  mask,  tho'  but  in  his  own  behoof, 
With  a  glassy  smile  his  brutal  scorn, — 
What  if  he  had  told  her  yestermorn 
How  prettily  for  his  own  sweet  sake 
A  face  of  tenderness  might  be  feign'd, 
And  a  moist  mirage  in  desert  eyes, 
That    so,  when  the    rotten    hustings 

shake 
In  another  month  to  his  brazen  lies, 
A  wretched  vote  may  be  gain'd. 

7- 
For  a  raven  ever  croaks,  at  my  side. 
Keep  watch  and  ward,  keep  watch  and 
ward. 


MAUD. 


22^ 


Or  thou  wilt  prove  their  tool. 
Yea  too,  myself  from  myself  I  guard, 
For  often  a  man's  own  angry  pride 
Is  cap  and  bells  for  a  fool. 


Perhaps  the  smile  and  tender  tone 
Came  out  of  her  pitying  womanhood, 
P'or  am  I  not,  am  I  not,  here  alone 
So  many  a  summer  since  she  died. 
My  mother,  who  was  so   gentle   and 

good  ? 
Living  alone  in  an  empty  house. 
Here  half-hid  in  the  gleaming  wood, 
Where   I   hear  the    dead   at   midday 

moan, 
And  the  shrieking  rush  of  the  wainscot 

mouse, 
And    my  own  sad  name  in  corners 

cried. 
When  the  shiver  of  dancing  leaves  is 

thrown 
About  its  echoing  chambers  wide, 
Till  a  morbid  hate  and  horror  have 

grown 
Of  a  world  in  which   I   have   hardly 

mixt, 
And  a  morbid  eating  lichen  fixt 
On  a  heart  half-turn'd  to  stone. 


O  heart  of  stone,  are  you  flesh,  and 

caught 
By  that  you  swore  to  withstand  ? 
For    what    was    it    else    within    me 

wrought 
But,  I  fear,  the  new  strong  wine  of 

love, 
That  made  my  tongue  so  stammer  and 

trip 
When  I  saw  the  treasured  splendor, 

her  hand. 
Come  sliding  out  of  her  sacred  glove, 
A.nd  the  sunlight  broke  from  her  lip ; 


I  have  play'd  with  her  when  a  child  : 
She  remembers  it  now  we  meet. 
Ah  well,  well,  well,  I  may  be  beguiled 
By  some  coquettish  deceit* 


Yet,  if  she  were  not  a  cheat. 
If  Maud  were  all  that  she  seem'd, 
And  her  smile  had  all  that  1  dream'd 
Then  the  world  were  not  so  bitter 
But  a  smile  could  make  it  sweet. 

VII. 


Did  I  hear  it  half  In  a  doze 
Long  since,  I  know  not  where  > 

Did  I  dream  it  an  hour  ago, 
When  asleep  in  this  arm-chair.? 


Men  were  drinking  together, 
Drinking  and  talking  of  me ; 

"  Well,  if  it  prove  a  girl,  the  boy 
Will  have  plenty;  so  let  it  be." 


Is  it  an  echo  of  something 
Read  with  a  boy's  delight, 

Viziers  nodding  together 
In  some  Arabian  night? 


Strange,  that  I  hear  two  men, 
Somewhere  talking  of  me; 

"  W^ell,  if  it  prove  a  girl,  my  boy 
Will  have  plenty :  so  let  it  be." 

VIIL 

She  came  to  the  village  church, 
And  sat  by  a  pillar  alone ; 
An  angel  watching  an  urn 
Wept  over  her,  carved  in  stone ; 
And  once,  but  once,  she  lifted  her 

eyes, 
And     suddenly,     sweetly,     strangely 

blush'd 
To  find  they  were  met  by  my  own ; 
And  suddenly,  sweetly,  my  heart  beat 

stronger 
And  thicker,  until  I  heard  no  longer 
The  snow7-banded,  dilettante, 
Delicate-handed  priest  intone ; 
And  thought,  is  it  pride,  and  mused 

and  sigh'd 
'*  No  surely,  now  it  cannot  be  pride." 


226 


MAUD. 


IX. 

I  WAS  walking  a  mile, 
More  than  a  mile  from  the  shore. 
The  sun  look'd  out  with  a  smile 
Betwixt  the  cloud  and  the  moor^ 
And  riding  at  set  of  day 
Over  the  dark  moor  land. 
Rapidly  riding  far  away, 
She  waved  to  me  with  her  hand. 
There  were  two  at  her  side, 
Something  flash'd  in  the  sun, 
•  Down  by  the  hill  I  saw  them  ride, 
In  a  moment  they  were  gone  : 
Like  a  sudden  spark 
Struck  vainly  in  the  night, 
And  back  returns  the  dark 
With  no  more  hope  of  light. 

X. 

I. 

Sick,  am  I  sick  of  a  jealous  dread  ? 
"Was  not  one  of  the  two  at  her  side 
This  new-made  lord,  whose  splendor 

plucks 
The   slavish    hat  from    the   villager's 

head  ? 
"Whose  old  grandfather  has  lately  died, 
Gone  to  a  blacker  pit,  for  whom 
Grimy  nakedness  dragging  his  trucks 
And   laying   his   trams   in   a   poison 'd 

gloom  [mine 

Wrought  till  he  crept  from  a  gutted 
Master  of  half  a  servile  shire, 
And  left  his  coal  all  turn'd  into  gold 
To  a  grandson,  first  of  his  noble  line. 
Rich  in  the  grace  all  women  desire, 
Strong  in    the    power  that    all  men 

adore, 
And  simper  and  set  their  voices  lower, 
And  soften  as  if  to  a  girl,  and  hold 
Awe-stricken  breaths  at  a  work  divine, 
Seeing  his  gew-gaw  castle  shine. 
New  as  his  title,  built  last  year. 
There  amid  perky  larches  and  pine, 
And  over  the  sullen-purple  moor 
(Look  at  it)  pricking  a  cockney  ear. 

2. 

What,  has  he  found  my  jewel  out  ? 
For  one  of  the  two  that  rode  at  her 
side 


Bound  fof  the  Hall,  I  am  sure  waiJ 

he: 
Bound  for  the  Hall,  and  I  thinlc  for  a 

bride. 
Blithe  would  her  brother's  acceptance 

be. 
Maud  could  be  gracious  too,  no  doubt, 
To  a  lord,  a  captain,  a  padded  shape, 
A  bought  commission,  a  waxen  face, 
A  rabbit  mouth  that  is  ever  agape — 
Bought  ?  what  is  it  he  cannot  buy .'' 
And    therefore    splenetic,    personal, 

base, 
A   wounded  thing  with  a  rancorous 

cry, 
At  war  with  myself  and  a  wretched 

race. 
Sick,  sick  to  the  heart  of  life,  am  I. 


\ 


Last  week  came  one  to  the  county 
town, 

To  preach  our  poor  little  army  down,. 

And  play  the  game  of  the  despof 
kings, 

Tho'  the  state  has  done  it  and  thrice 
as  well  : 

This  broad  -  brim'd  hawker  of  holy 
things. 

Whose  ear  is  stuff'd  with  his  cotton, 
and  rings 

Even  in  dreams  to  the  chink  of  his 
pence. 

This  huckster  put  down  war !  can  he 
tell 

Whether  war  be  a  cause  or  a  conse- 
quence .'' 

Put  down  the  passions  that  make  earth 
Hell ! 

Down  with  ambition,  avarice,  pride, 

Jealousy,  down  !  cut  off  from  the 
mind 

The  bitter  springs  of  anger  and  fear : 

Down  too,  down  at  your  own  fire- 
side, [ear, 

With  the   evil  tongue    and   the   evil 

For  each  is  at  war  with  mankind. 


I  wish  I  could  hear  again 
The  chivalrous  battle-song 


That  she  warbled  alone  in  her  joy ! 

I  might  persuade  myself  then 

She  would  not  do  herself  this  great 

wrong 
To  taice  a  wanton,  dissolute  boy 
For  a  man  and  leader  of  men. 


Ah  God,  for  a  man  with  heart,  head, 

hand. 
Like  some  of  the  simple  great  ones 

gone 
Forever  and  ever  by, 
One  still  strong  man  in  a  blatant  land, 
Whatever  they  caH  him,  what  care  I, 
Aristocrat,  democrat,  autocrat, — one 
Who  can  rule  and  dare  not  lie. 


And  ah  for  a  man  to  rise  in  me. 
That  the  man  I  am  may  cease  to  be ! 

XI. 


0  LET  the  solid  ground 
Not  fail  beneath  my  feet 

Before  my  life  has  found 

What  some  have  found  so  sweet ; 
Then  let  come  what  come  may, 
What  matter  if  I  go  mad, 

1  shall  have  had  my  day. 


Let  the  sweet  heavens  endure. 
Not  close  and  darken  above  me 

Before  I  am  quite  quite  sure 
That  there  is  one  to  love  me ; 

Then  let  come  what  come  may 

To  a  life  that  has  been  so  sad, 

I  shall  have  had  my  day. 

XII. 

I. 

Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden 
When  twilight  was  falling, 

Maud,  Maud,  Maud,  Maud, 
They  were  crying  and  calling. 


Where  was  Maud  ?  in  our  wood  ; 
And  I,  who  else,  was  with  her, 


Gathering  woodland  lilies, 
Myraids  blow  together. 

3. 
Birds  in  our  woods  sang 

Ringing  thro'  the  valleys. 
Maud  is  here,  here,  here 

In  among  the  lilies. 

4- 
I  kiss'd  her  slender  hand. 

She  took  the  kiss  sedately ; 
Maud  is  not  seventeen. 

But  she  is  tall  and  stately. 


I  to  cry  out  on  pride 

Who  have  won  her  favor! 
O  Maud  were  sure  of  Heaven 

If  lowliness  could  save  her. 


I  know  the  way  she  went 
Home  with  her  maiden  posy, 

For  her  feet  have  touch'd  the  mea- 
dows 
And  left  the  daisies  rosy. 

7- 
Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden 

Were  crying  and  calling  to  her, 
W^here  is  Maud,  Maud,  Maud, 

One  is  come  to  woo  her. 


Look,  a  horse  at  the  door. 

And  little  King  Charles  is  snarling, 
Go  back,  my  lord,  across  the  moor. 

You  are  not  her  darling. 

XIIL 

I. 

Scorn'd,  to  be  scorn'd  by  one  that  I 

scorn, 
Is  that  a  matter  to  make  me  fret  ? 
That  a  calamity  hard  to  be  borne  ? 
Well,  he  may  live  to  hate  me  yet. 

Fool  that  I  am  to  be  vext  with  his 

pride  ! 
I  past  him,  I  was  crossing  his  lands; 
He  stood  on  the  path  a  little  aside; 
His  face,  as  I  grant,  in  spite  of  spitoi^ 


228 


MAUD. 


Has  a  broad-blown  comeliness,  red  and 

white, 
And  six  feet  two,  as  I  think,  he  stands  ; 
But  his  essence  turn'd  the  live  air  sick, 
And  barbarous  opulence  jewel-thick 
Sunn'd  itself   on   his   breast   and   his 

hands. 


Who  shall  call  me  ungentle,  unfair, 
I  long'd  so  heartily  then  and  there 
To  give  him  the  grasp  of  fellowship; 
But  while  I  past  he  was  humming  an 

air, 
Stopt,  and  then  with  a  riding  whip 
Leisurely  tapping  a  glossy  boot, 
And  curving  a  contumelious  lip, 
Gorgonized  me  from  head  to  foot 
With  a  stony  British  stare. 


Why  sits  he  here  in  his  father's  chair  ? 
That    old   man   never    comes    to   his 

place  : 
Shall  I   believe   him  ashamed  to  be 

seen  ? 
For  only  once,  in  the  village  street, 
Last  year,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  his 

face, 
A  gray  old  wolf  and  a  lean. 
Scarcely,   now,   would   I   call    him  a 

cheat ; 
For  then,  perhaps,  as  a  child  of  deceit, 
She  might  by  a  true  descent  be  untrue; 
And  Maud  is  as  true  as  Maud  is  sweet; 
Tho'  I  fancy  her  sweetness  only  due 
To   the  sweeter  blood  by  the  other 

side ; 
Her  mother  has  been  a  thing  complete. 
However  she  came  to  be  so  allied. 
And  fair  without,  faithful  within, 
Maud  to  him  is  nothing  akin : 
Some  peculiar  mystic  grace 
?vlade  her  only  the  child  of  her  mother, 
And  heap'd  the  whole  inherited  sin 
On  that  huge  scapegoat  of  the  race, 
All,  all  upon  the  brother. 

4. 
Peace,  angry  spirit,  and  let  him  be  ! 
Has  not  his  sister  smiled  on  me  ? 


XIV. 


Maud  has  a  garden  of  roses 
And  lilies  fair  on  a  lawn ; 
There  she  walks  in  her  state 
And  tends  upon  bed  and  bower 
And  thither  I  climb'd  at  dawn 
And  stood  by  her  garden  gate  ; 
A  lion  ramps,at  the  top. 
He  is  claspt  by  a  passion  flower. 


Maud's  own  little  o«k-room 
(Which  Maud,  like  a  precious  stone 
Set  in  the  heart  of  the  carven  gloom. 
Lights  with  herself,  when  alone 
She  sits  by  her  music  and  books. 
And  her  brother  lingers  late 
With  a  roistering  company)  looks 
Upon  Maud's  own  garden  gate  : 
And  I  thought  as  I  stood,  if  a  hand,  a5 

white 
As  ocean-foam  in  the  moon,  were  laid 
On  the  hasp  of  the  window,  and  my 

Delight 
Plad  a  sudden  desire,  like  a  glorious 

ghost,  to  glide. 
Like  a  beam  of  the  seventh  Heaven, 

down  to  my  side. 
There  were  but  a  step  to  be  made. 


The  fancy  flatter'd  my  mind. 

And  again  seem'd  overbold  ; 

Now  I  thought  that  she  cared  for  me, 

Now  I  thought  she  was  kind 

Only  because  she  was  cold. 

4- 
I  heard  no  sound  where  I  stood 
But  the  rivulet  on  from  the  lawn 
Running  down  to  my  own  dark  wood: 
Or  the  voice  of  the  long  sea-wave  as  if 

swell'd 
Now  and  then  in  the  dim-gray  dawn  ; 
But  I  look'd,  and  round,  all  round  the 

house  I  beheld 
The  death-white  curtain  drawn  ; 
Felt  a  horror  over  me  creep, 
Prickle  my  skin  and  catch  my  breath, 


MAUD. 


229 


Knew    that    the    death-white  curtain 

meant  but  sleep, 
Yet  I  shudder'd  and  thought  like  a  fool 

of  the  sleep  of  death. 

XV. 

So  dark  a  mind  within  me  dwells, 
And  I  make  myself  such  evil  cheer, 

That  if  I  be  dear  to  some  one  else, 
Then  some  one  else  may  have  much 
to  fear  ; 

But  if  I  be  dear  to  some  one  else, 
Then  I  should  be   to  myself   more 
dear. 

Shall  I  not  take  care  of  all  fnat  I  think, 

Yea  ev'n  of  wretched  meat  and  drink, 

If  I  be  dear. 

If  I  be  dear  to  some  one  else  ? 

XVI. 


This  lump  of  earth  has  left  his  estate 
The  lighter  by  the  loss  of  his  weight ; 
And  so  that  he  find  what  he  went  to 

seek, 
And  fulsome   Pleasure  clog  him,  and 

drown 
His  heart  in  the  gross  mud-honey  of 

town, 
He  may  stay  for  a  year  who  has  gone 

for  a  week ; 
But  this  is  the  day  when  I  must  speak, 
And  I  see  my  Oread  coming  down, 
O  this  is  the  day ! 
O  beautiful  creature,  what  am  I 
That  I  dare  to  look  her  way ; 
Think  I  may  hold  dominion  sweet, 
Lord  of  the  pulse  that  is  lord  of  her 

breast, 
And  dream  of  her  beauty  with  tender 

dread. 
From   the  delicate   Arab  arch  of  her 

feet 
To  the  grace  that,  bright  and  light  as 

the  crest 
Of  a  peacock,  sits  on  her  shining  head, 
And  she  knows  it  not :  O,  if  she  knew 

it, 
To  know  her  beauty  might  half  undo  it, 


I  know  it  the  one  bright  thing  to  save 
My  yet  young  life  in  ♦.he  wilds  of  Time, 
Perhaps  from  madness,  perhaps  from 

crime. 
Perhaps  from  a  selfish  grave. 


What,  if  she  were  fasten'd  to  this  fooJ 

lord, 
Dare  I  bid  her  abide  by  her  word  } 
Should  I  love  her  so  well  if  she 
Had  given  her  word  to  a  thing  so  low  ? 
Shall  I  love  her  as  well  as  if  she 
Can  break  her  word  were  it  even  for 

me.? 
I  trust  that  it  is  not  so. 


my 


3. 

breath, 


O   clamorous 


Catch   not 

heart. 
Let  not  my  tongue  be  a  thrall  to  my 

eye, 
For  I  must  tell  her  before  we  part, 
I  must  tell  her,  or  die. 

XVII. 

Go  not,  happy  day. 

From  the  shining  fields. 
Go  not,  happy  day, 

Till  the  maiden  yields. 
Rosy  is  the  West, 

Rosy  is  the  South, 
Roses  are  her  cheeks, 

And  a  rose  her  mouth. 
When  the  happy  Yes 

Falters  from  her  lips. 
Pass  and  blush  the  news 

O'er  the  blowing  ships. 
Over  blowing  seas. 

Over  seas  at  rest, 
Pass  the  happy  news. 

Blush  it  thro'  the  West, 
Till  the  red  man  dance 

By  his  red  cedar-tree. 
And  the  red  man's  babe 

Leap,  beyond  the  sea. 
Blush  from  West  to  East, 

Blush  from  East  to  West, 
Till  the  West  is  East, 


•«3o 


MAUD. 


Blush  it  thro'  the  West. 
Rosy  is  the  West, 

Rosy  is  the  South, 
Roses  are  her  cheeks, 

And  a  rose  her  mouth. 

XVIII. 


I  HAVE  led  her  home,  my  love,  my 
only  friend. 

There  is  none  like  her,  none, 

And  never  yet  so  warmly  ran  my 
blood 

And  sweetly,  on  and  on 

Calming  itself  to  the  long-wish'd  for 
end, 

Full  to  the  banks,  close  on  the  prom- 
ised good. 


None  like  her,  none 

Just  now  the  dry-tongued  laurel's  pat- 
tering talk 

Seem'd  her  light  foot  along  the  garden 
walk. 

And  shook  my  heart  to  think  she 
comes  once  more  ; 

But  even  then  I  heard  her  close  the 
door, 

The  gates  of  Heaven  are  closed,  and 
she  is  gone. 


There  is  none  like  her,  none. 

Nor  will  be  when  our  summers  have 

deceased. 
O,  art  thou  sighing  for  Lebanon 
In  the  long  breeze  that  streams  to  thy 

delicious  East, 
Sighing  for  Lebanon, 
Dark  cedar,  tho'  thy  limbs  have  here 

increased. 
Upon  a  pastoral  slope  as  fair, 
And  looking  to  the  South,  and  fed 
With  honey'd  rain  and  delicate  air. 
And  haunted  by  the  starry  head 
Oi  her  whose  gentle  will  has  changed 

my  fate. 
And  made  my  life  a  perfumed  altar- 
flame; 


And  over  whom  thy   darkness    must 

have  spread 
With  such  delight  as  theirs  of  old,  thy 

great 
Forefathers   of  the   thornless   garden, 

there 
Shadowing  the  snow-limb'd  Eve  from 

whom  she  came. 

4. 
Here    will    I    lie,   while    these    long 

branches  sway, 
And  you  fair  stars  that  crown  a  happy 

day 
Go  in  and  out  as  if  at  merry  play, 
Who  am  no  more  so  all  forlorn, 
As  when  it  seem'd  far  better  to  be 

born 
To  labor    and  the  mattock-harden'd 

hand, 
Than  nursed  its  ease  and  brought  to 

understand 
A  sad  astrology,  the  boundless  plan 
That  makes  you  tyrants  in  your  iron 

skies, 
Innumerable,  pitiless,  passionless  eyes, 
Cold  fires,  yet  with  power  to  burn  and 

brand 
His  nothingness  into  man. 

5- 

But  now  shine  on,  and  what  care  I, 
Who  in  this  stormy  gulf  have  found  a 

pearl 
The  countercharm  of  space  and  hollow 

sky. 
And  do  accept  my  madness  and  would 

die 
To  save  from  some  slight  shame  one 

simple  girl. 


Would  die  ;  for  sullen  seeming  Death 

may  give 
More  life  to  Love  than  is  or  ever  was 
In  our  low  world,  where  yet  'tis  sweet 

to  live. 
Let  no  one  ask  me  how  it  came  to 

pass  ; 
It  seems  that  I  am  happy,  that  to  me 


MAUD. 


231 


A.   livelier    emerald   twinkles    in    the 

grass, 
A  purer  sapphire  melts  into  the  sea. 

7- 

Not   die;     but   live   a    life   of    truest 

breath, 
And  teach  true  life  to  fight  with  mortal 

wrongs. 
O,    why    should    Love,    like  men  in 

drinking-songs, 
Spice  his  fair  banquet  with  the  dust  of 

death  ? 
Make  answer,  Maud  my  bliss. 
Maud   made   my   Maud   by  that  long 

lover's  kiss, 
Life  of  my  life,  wilt  thou  not  answer 

this  ? 
"  The  dusky  strand  of  Death  inwoven 

here 
With  dear  Love's    tie,  makes    Love 

himself  more  dear." 

8. 

Is    that    enchanted    moan    only    thc- 

swell 
Of  the  long  waves  that  roll  in  yonder 

bay? 
And  hark  the  clock  within,  the  silver 

knell 
Of  twelve  sweet  hours  that  past  in 

bridal  white, 
And  died  to  live,  long  as  my  pulses 

play  ; 
But  now  by  this  my  love  has   closed 

her  sight 
And  given  false  death  her  hand,  and 

stol'n  away 
To    dreamful  wastes    where    footless 

fancies  dwell 
Among  the  fragments  of  the  golden 

day. 
May  nothing  there  her  maiden  grace 

affright  1 
Dear  heart,  I  feel  with  thee  the  drowsy 

spell. 
My  bride  to  be,  my  evermore  delight. 
My  own  heart's  heart  and  ownest  own 

farewell ; 
It  is  but  for  a  little  space  I  go 


And  ye  meanwhile  far  over  moor  and 

fell 
Beat  to  the   noiseless  music    of  the 

night ! 
Has  our  whole  earth  gone  nearer  to 

the  glow 
Of  your  soft  splendors  that  you  look  so 

bright  ? 
/  have  climb'd  nearer  out  of  lonely 

Hell. 
Beat,  happy  stars,  timing  with  things 

below. 
Beat  with  my  heart  more  blest  than 

heart  can  tell, 
Blest,  but  for  some  dark  undercurrent 

woe 
That  seems  to  draw — but  it  shall  not 

be  so : 
Let  all  be  well,  be  well. 

XIX. 


Her  brother  is  coming  back  to-night, 
Breaking  up  my  dream  of  delight. 


My  dream  ?  do  I  dream  of  bliss  ? 
I  have  vvalk'd  awake  with  Truth 

0  when  did  a  morning  shine 
So  rich  in  atonement  as  this 
For  my  dark-dawning  youth, 
Darken'd  watching  a  mother  decline 
And  that  dead  man  at  her  heart  and 

mine- 
For  who  was  left  to  watch  her  but  I  ? 
Yet  so  did  I  let  my  freshness  die. 

3- 

1  trust  that  I  did  not  talk 
To  gentle  Maud  in  our  walk 
(For  often  in  lonely  wanderings 

I   have   cursed   him    even   to  lifeless 

things) 
But  I  trust  that  I  did  not  talk, 
Not  touch  on  her  father's  sin  : 
I  am  sure  I  did  but  speak 
Of  my  mother's  faded  cheek 
When  it  slowly  grew  so  thin. 
That  I  felt  she  was  slowly  dying 


232 


MAUD. 


Vext  with  lawyers  and  harass'd  with 

debt: 
For  how  often  I  caught  her  with  eyes 

all  wet, 
Shaking   her    head   at   her    son    and 

sighing 
A  world  of  trouble  within ! 


And  Maud  too,  Maud  was  moved 
To  speak  of  the  mother  she  loved 
As  one  scarce  less  forlorn, 
Dying  abroad  and  it  seems  apart 
From  him  who  had  ceased  to  share  her 

heart, 
And  ever  mourning  over  the  feud, 
The   household   Fury   sprinkled    with 

blood 
By  which  our  houses  are  torn  ; 
How  strange  was  what  she  said, 
When  only  Maud  and  the  brother 
Hung  over  her  dying  bed, — 
That  Maud's  dark  father  and  mine 
Had  bound  us  one  to  the  other, 
Betrothed  us  over  their  wine 
On  the  day  when  Maud  was  born ; 
Seal'd  her  mine  from  her  first  sweet 

breath. 
Mine,  mine  by  a  right,  from  birth  till 

death, 
Mine,  mine — our  fathers  have  sworn. 


But  the  true  blood  spilt  had  in  it  a 

heat 
To  dissolve  the  precious  seal   on  a 

bond, 
That,  if  left  uncancell'd,  had  been  so 

sweet  : 
And  none  of  us  thought  of  a  something 

beyond, 
A  desire  that  awoke  in  the  heart  of  the 

child. 
As  it  were  a  duty  done  to  the  tomb. 
To  be  friends  for  her  sake,  to  be  recon- 
ciled ; 
And    I    was    cursing    them    and  my 

doom, 
And  letting  a  dangerous  thought  run 

wild 


While  often  abroad   in  the  fragrant 

gloom 
Of  foreign  churches, — I  see  her  there, 
Bright  English  lily,  breathing  a  prayer 
To  be  friends,  to  be  reconciled! 


But  then  what  a  flint  is  he  ! 
Abroad,  at  Florence,  at  Rome, 
I  find  whenever  she  touch'd  on  me 
This  brother  had  laugh'd  her  down, 
And  at  last,  when  each  came  home. 
He  had  darken'd  into  a  frown, 
Chid  her,  and  forbid  her  to  speak 
To  me,  her  friend  of  the  years  before  ; 
And  this  was  what  had  redden'd  her 

cheek, 
When  I  bov/'d  to  her  on  the  moor. 


Yet  Maud,  altho'  not  blind 

To  the  faults  of  his  heart  and  mind, 

I  see  she  cannot  but  love  him, 

And  says  he  is  rough  but  kind. 

And  wishes  me  to  approve  him, 

And  tells  me,  when  she  lay 

Sick  once,  with  a  fear  of  worse, 

That  he  left  his  wine  and  horses  and 

play, 
Sat  with  her,  read  to  her,  night  and 

day. 
And  tended  her  like  a  nurse. 


Kind  ?  but  the  death-bed  desire 
Spurn'd  by  this  heir  of  the  liar — 
Rough  but  kind  ?  yet  I  know 
He  has  plotted  against  me  in  this, 
That  he  plots  against  me  still. 
Kind  to  Maud  ?  that  were  not  amiss, 
Well,  rough  but  kind ;  why,  let  it  be 

so  : 
For  shall  not  Maud  have  her  will  t 


For,  Maud,  so  tender  and  true, 
As  long  as  my  life  endures 
I  feel  I  shall  owe  you  a  debt, 
That  I  never  can  hope  to  pay ; 


MAUD. 


233 


And  if  ever  I  should  forget 
That  I  owe  this  debt  to  you 
And  for  your  sweet  sake  to  yours  ; 

0  then,  what  then  shall  I  say  ? — 
If  ever  I  should  forget, 

May  God  make  me  more  wretched 
Than  ever  I  have  been  yet ! 

10. 

So  now  I  have  sworn  to  bury 
All  this  dead  body  of  hate, 

1  feel  so  free  and  so  clear 

By  the  loss  of  that  dead  weight, 
That   I  should  grow  light-headed,   I 

fear, 
Fantastically  merry ; 
But  that   her  brother  comes,   like   a 

blight 
Or  my  fresh  hope,  to  the  Hall  to- 

H'ght. 

XX. 


Strange,  that  I  felt  so  gay, 
Strange,  that  I  tried  to-day 
To  beguile  her  melancholy  ; 
The  Sultan,  as  we  name  him, 
She  did  not  wish  to  blame  him — 
But  he  vext  her  and  perplext  her 
With  his  worldly  talk  and  folly  : 
"Was  it  gentle  to  reprove  her 
For  stealing  out  of  view 
From  a  little  lazy  lover 
Who  but  claims  her  as  his  due? 
Or  for  chilling  his  caresses, 
By  the  coldness  of  her  manners. 
Nay,  the  plainness  of  her  dresses  ? 
Now  I  know  her  but  in  two, 
Nor  can  pronounce  upon  it 
If  one  should  ask  me  whether 
The  habit,  hat,  and  feather. 
Or  the  frock  and  gypsy  bonnet 
Be  the  neater  and  completer  ; 
For  nothing  can  be  sweeter 
Than  maiden  Maud  in  either. 


But  to-morrow,  if  we  live. 
Our  ponderous  squire  will  give 


A  grand  political  dinner 
To  half  the  squirelings  near  ; 
And  Maud  will  wear  her  jewels, 
And  the  bird  of  prey  will  hover. 
And  the  titmouse  hope  to  win  her 
With  his  chirrup  at  her  ear. 

.3- 
A  grand  political  dinner 
To  the  men  of  many  acres, 
A  gathering  of  the  Tory, 
A  dinner  and  then  a  dance 
For  the  maids  and  marriage-makers, 
And  every  eye  but  mine  will  glance 
At  Maud  in  all  her  glory. 

4- 
For  I  am  not  invited, 
But,  with  the  Sultan's  pardon, 
I  am  all  as  well  delighted, 
For  I  know  her  own  rose-garden, 
And  mean  to  linger  in  it 
Till  the  dancing  will  be  over ; 
And  then,  O  then,  come  out  to  mo 
For  a  minute,  but  for  a  minute. 
Come  out  to  your  own  true  lover, 
That  your  true  lover  may  see 
Your  glory  also,  and  render 
All  homage  to  his  own  darling, 
Queen  Maud  in  all  her  splendor. 

XXI. 

Rivulet  crossing  my  ground. 

And  bringing  me  down  from  th;  Hall 

This  garden-rose  that  I  found. 

Forgetful  of  Maud  and  me, 

And  lost  in  trouble  and  moving  round 

Here  at  the  head  of  a  tinkling  fi^ll, 

And  trying  to  pass  to  the  sea; 

O  Rivulet,  born  at  the  Hall, 

My  Maud  has  sent  it  by  thee 

(If  I  read  her  sweet  will  right) 

On  a  blushing  mission  to  me* 

Saying  in  odor  and  color,  *' Ah,  be 

Among  the  roses  to-night/' 

XXII. 


Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flows^ 


234 


MAUD. 


Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 
I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone ; 

And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted 
abroad, 
And  the  musk  of  the  roses  blown. 


For  a  breeze  of  morning  moves, 

And  the  planet  of  Love  is  on  high, 
Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that  she 
loves 
On  a  bed  of  daffodil  sky, 
To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sun  she 
loves, 
To  faint  in  his  light,  and  to  die. 


All  night  have  the  roses  heard 

The  flute,  violin,  bassoon  ; 
All  night  has  the  casement  jessamine 
stirr'd 

To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune  ; 
Till  a  silence  fell  with  the  waking  bird, 

And  a  hush  with  the  setting  moon. 


I  said  to  the  lily,  "  There  is  but  one 

With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gay. 
When  will  the  dancers  leave  her  alone } 

She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play." 
Now  half  to  the  setting  moon  are  gone. 

And  half  to  the  rising  day; 
Low  on  the  sand  and  loud  on  the  stone 

The  last  wheel  echoes  away. 


I  said  to  the  rose,  "The  brief  night 
goes 
In  babble  and  revel  and  wine. 
O  young  lord-lover,  what    sighs  are 
those, 
For  one  that  will  never  be  thine  ? 
But  mine,  but  mine,"  so  I  sware  to  the 
rose, 
•'  Forever  and  ever,  mine." 


And  the  soul  of  the  rose  went  into  my 
blood. 
As  the  music  clash'd  in  the  hall ; 


As  long  by  the  garden  lake  I  stood, 
For  I  heard  your  rivulet  fall 

From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  and  on 
to  the  wood. 
Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all ; 


From  the  meadow  your  walks  have 
left  so  sweet 
That  whenever  a  March-wind  sighs 
He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet 

In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes, 
To  the  woody  hollows  in  which  we 
meet 
And  the  valleys  of  Paradise. 

8. 

The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 

One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree ; 
The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the 
lake, 

As  the  pimpernel  dozed  on  the  lea ; 
But  the  rose  was  awake  ^11  night  for 
your  sake. 

Knowing  your  promise  to  me ; 
The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake, 

They  sigh'd  for  the  dawn  and  thee. 


Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of 
girls, 
Come  hither,  the  dances  are  done, 
In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls, 

Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one  ; 
Shine  out,  little   head,  sunning  ovei 
with  curls, 
To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun. 


There  has  fallen  a  splendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 
She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear  ; 

She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate  ; 
The  red  rose  cries,  "  She  is  near,  she 
is  near ; " 

And  the  white  rose  weeps,  "  She  is 
late ; " 
The  larkspur  listens,  "  I  hear,  I  hear; 

And  the  lily  whispers,  "  I  wait," 


MAUD. 


235 


She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet ; 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread, 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Weie  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed  ; 
My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead ; 
Would  start   and   tremble   under  her 
feet, 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 


XXIII. 


"The  fault  was  mine,  the  fault  was 

mine" — 
Why  am  I  sitting  here  so  stunn'd  and 

still, 
Plucking  the  harmless  wild-flower  on 

the  hill  ?— 
It  is  this  guilty  hand ! — 
And  there  rises  ever  a  passionate  cry 
From    underneath    in   the   darkening 

land — 
What  is  it,  that  has  been  done  ? 
O  dawn  of  Eden  bright  over  earth  and 

sky, 
The  fires  of  Hell  brake   out  of  thy 

rising  sun. 
The  fires  of  Hell  and  of  Hate ; 
For  she,  sweet  soul,  had  hardly  spoken 

a  word, 
When  her  brother  ran  in  his  rage  to 

the  gate. 
He  came  with  the  babe-faced  lord ; 
Heap'd  on  her  terms  of  disgrace, 
And  while  she  wept,  and  I  strove  to  be 

cool, 
He  fiercely  gave  me  the  lie. 
Till  I  with  as  fierce  an  anger  spoke. 
And  he  struck  me,  madman,  over  the 

face, 
Struck  me  before  the  languid  fool. 
Who  was  gaping  and  grinning  by  : 
Struck  for  himself  an  evil  stroke  : 
Wrought  for  his  house  an  irredeemable 

woe  ; 
For  front  to  front  in  an  hour  we  stood. 
And    a    million     horrible    bellowing 

echoes  broke 


From  the  red-ribb'd  hollow  behind  the 

wood. 
And  thunder'd   up   into   Heaven   the 

Christless  code. 
That  must  have  life  for  a  blow. 
Ever  and  ever  afresh  they  seem'd  to 

grow. 
Was  it  he  lay  there  with  a  fading  eye  ? 
"  The  fault  was  mine,"  he  whisper'd, 

"fly!" 
Then  glided  out  of  the  joyous  wood 
The   ghastly    Wraith   of    one    that   I 

know ; 
And  there   rang  on   a  sudden  a  pas- 
sionate cry, 
A  cry  for  a  brother's  blood  : 
It  will  ring  in  my  heart  and  my  ears, 

till  I  die,  till  I  die. 


Is  it  gone  ?  my  pulses  beat — 

What  was   it .?    a  lying   trick  of   the 

brain  "i 
Yet  I  thought  I  saw  her  stand, 
A  shadow  there  at  my  feet. 
High  over  the  shadowy  land. 
It  is  gone ;  and  the  heavens  fall  in  a 

gentle  rain. 
When   they  should   burst  and  drown 

with  deluging  storms 
The  feeble  vassals  of  wine  and  anger 

and  lust, 
The  little  hearts  that  know  not  how  to 

forgive  : 
Arise,  my  God,  and  strike,  for  we  hold 

Thee  just. 
Strike  dead  the  whole  weak  race  of 

venomous  worms, 
That  sting  each  other  here  in  the  dust ; 
We  are  not  worthy  to  live. 

XXIV. 


See  what  a  lovely  shell. 
Small  and  pure  as  a  pearl, 
Lying  close  to  my  foot, 
P'rail,  but  a  work  divine, 
Made  so  fairily  well 
With  delicate  spire  and  whorl, 
How  exquisitely  minute, 
A  miracle  of  design ! 


236 


MAUD. 


What  is  i!  ?  a  learned  man 
Could  give  it  a  clumsy  name. 
Let  him  name  it  who  can, 
The  beauty  would  be  the  same. 


The  tiny  cell  is  forlorn, 
Void  of  the  little  living  will      • 
That  made  it  stir  on  the  shore. 
Did  he  stand  at  the  diamond  door 
Of  his  house  in  a  rainbow  frill } 
Did  he  push,  when  he  was  uncurl'd, 
A  golden  foot  or  a  fairy  horn 
Thro'  his  dim  warter-world  } 


Slight,  to  hz  crush'd  with  a  tap 
Of  my  finger-nail  on  the  sand, 
Small,  but  a  work  divine. 
Frail,  but  of  force  to  withstand, 
Year  upon  year,  the  shock 
Of  cataract  seas  that  snap 
The  three-decker's  oaken  spine 
Athwart  the  ledges  of  rock, 
Here  on  the  Breton  strand  ! 


Breton,  not  Briton ;  here 

Like  a  shipwreck'd  man  on  a  coast 

Of  ancient  fable  and  fear, — 

Plagued  with  a  flitting  to  and  fro, 

A  disease,  a  hard  mechanic  ghost 

That  never  came  from  on  high 

Nor  never  arose  from  below. 

But  only  moves  with  the  moving  eye, 

Flying  along  the  land  and  the  main,- 

Why  should  it  look  like  Maud.? 

Am  I  to  be  overawed 

By  what  I  cannot  but  know 

Is  a  juggle  born  of  the  brain  ? 


Back  from  the  Breton  coast, 

Sick  of  a  nameless  fear, 

Back  to  the  dark  sea-line 

Looking,  thinking  of  all  I  have  lost ; 

An  old  song  vexes  my  ear  ; 

But  that  of  Lamech  is  mine. 


For  years,  a  measureless  ill. 
For  years,  forever,  to  part, — 
But  she,  she  would  love  me  still; 
And  as  long,  O  God,  as  she 
Have  a  grain  of  love  for  me, 
So  long,  no  doubt,  no  doubt, 
Shall  I  nurse  in  my  dark  heart. 
However  weary,  a  spark  of  will 
Not  to  be  trampled  out. 


Strange,  that  the  mind,  when  fraught 

With  a  passion  so  intense 

One  would  think  that  it  well 

Might  drown  all  life  in  the  eye, — 

That  it  should, by  being  so  overwrought, 

Suddenly  strike  on  a  sharper  sense 

For  a  shell,  or  a  flower,  little  things 

Which  else  would  have  been  past  by  I 

And  now  I  remember,  I, 

When  he  lay  dying  there, 

I  noticed  one  of  his  many  rings 

(For  he  had  many,  poor  worm)  and 

thought 
It  is  his  mother's  hair. 


Who  knows  if  he  be  dead  ? 

Whether  I  need  have  fled  ? 

Am  I  guilty  of  blood  } 

However  this  may  be, 

Comfort   her,  comfort  her,  all  things 

good, 
While  I  am  over  the  sea  ! 
Let  me  and  my  passionate  love  go  by, 
But  speak  to  her  all  things  holy  and 

high. 
Whatever  happen  to  me  ! 
Me  and  my  harmful  love  go  by ; 
But  come    to   her  waking,    find     her 

asleep. 
Powers  of  the  height,  powers  of  the 

deep. 
And  comfort  her  tho'  I  die. 

XXV. 

Courage,  poor  heart  of  stone  f 
I  will  not  ask  thee  why 
Thou  canst  not  understand 
That  thou  art  left  forever  alone : 


MAUD. 


237 


Courage,  poor  stupid  heart  of  stone. — 

Or  if  I  ask  thee  why, 

Care  not  thou  to  reply: 

She  is  but  dead,  and  the  time  is  at 

hand 
When  thou  shalt  more  than  die. 

XXVI. 


O  THAT  'twere  possible 
After  long  grief  and  pain 
To  find  the  arms  of  my  true  love 
Round  me  once  again  ! 


When  I  was  wont  to  meet  her 
In  the  silent  woody  places 
By  the  home  that  gave  me  birth, 
We  stood  tranced  in  long  embraces 
Mixt  with  kisses  sweeter  sweeter 
Than  anything  on  earth. 


A  shadow  flits  before  me. 

Not  thou,  but  like  to  thee  ; 

Ah  Christ,  that  it  were  possible 

I'^or  one  short  hour  tp  see 

Tlie  souls  we  loved,  that  they  might 

tell  us 
What  and  where  they  be. 


It  leads  me  forth  at  evening, 

It  lightly  winds  and  steals 

1\\  a  cold  white  robe  before  me. 

When  all  my  spirit  reels 

At  the  shouts,  the  leagues  of  lights, 

And  the  roaring  of  the  wheels. 


Half  the  night  I  waste  in  sighs, 
Half  in  dreams  I  sorrow  after 
The  delight  of  early  skies  ; 
In  a  wakeful  doze  I  sorrow 
For  the  hand,  the  lips,  the  eyes, 
For  the  meeting  of  the  morrow. 
The  delight  of  happy  laughter, 
The  delight  of  low  replies. 


'Tis  a  morning  pure  and  sweet, 
And  a  dewy  splendor  falls 
On  the  little  flower  that  clings 
To  the  turrets  and  the  walls ; 
'Tis  a  morning  pure  and  sweet, 
And  the  light  and  shadow  fleet ; 
She  is  walking  in  the  meadow. 
And  the  woodland  echo  rings; 
In  a  moment  we  shall  meet  ; 
She  is  singing  in  the  meadow, 
And  the  rivulet  at  her  feet 
Ripples  on  in  light  and  shadow 
To  the  ballad  that  she  sings. 


Do  I  hear  her  sing  as  of  old, 
My  bird  with  the  shining  head. 
My  own  dove  with  the  tender  eye  } 
But  there  rings  on  a  sudden  a  passioa. 

ate  cry, 
There  is  some  one  dying  or  dead, 
And  a  sullen  thunder  is  roll'd  ; 
For  a  tumult  shakes  the  city. 
And  I  wake,  my  dream  is  fled ; 
In  the  shuddering  dawn,  behold, 
Without  knowledge,  without  pity. 
By  the  curtains  of  my  bed 
That  abiding  phantom  cold. 

8. 
Get  thee  thence,  nor  come  again. 
Mix  not  memory  with  doubt. 
Pass,  thou  deathlike  type  of  pain, 
Pass  and  cease  to  move  about, 
'Tis  the  blot  upon  the  brain 
That  7w7/show  itself  without. 


Then  I  rise,  the  eavedrops  fall. 
And  the  yellow  vapors  choke 
The  great  city  sounding  wide ; 
The  day  comes,  a  dull  red  ball 
Wrapt  in  drifts  of  lurid  smoke 
On  the  misty  river-tide. 

10. 

Thro'  the  hubbub  of  the  market 

I  steal,  a  wasted  frame, 

It  crosses  here,  it  crosses  there. 

Thro'  all  that  crowd  confused  snd  loud, 


238 


MAUD. 


The  shadow  still  the  same  ; 
And  on  thy  heavy  eyelids 
My  anguish  hangs  like  shame. 


Alas  for  her  that  met  me, 

That  heard  me  softly  call, 

Came  glimmering  thro'  the  laurels 

At  the  quiet  evenfall, 

In  the  garden  by  the  turrets 

Of  the  old  manorial  hall. 


Would  the  happy  spirit  descend, 
From  the  realms  of  light  and  song, 
In  the  chamber  or  the  street. 
As  she  looks  among  the  blest, 
Should  I  fear  to  greet  my  friend 
Or  to  say  ''forgive  the  wrong," 
Or  to  ask  her,  "  take  me  sweet, 
To  the  regions  of  thy  rest  ?  " 

But  the  broad  light  glares  and  beats, 

And  the  shadow  flits  and  fleets 

And  will  not  let  me  be  ; 

And  I  loathe  the  squares  and  streets, 

And  the  faces  that  one  meets, 

Hearts  with  no  love  for  me  : 

Always  I  long  to  creep 

Into  some  still  cavern  deep, 

There  to  weep,  and  weep,  and  weep 

My  whole  soul  out  to  thee. 

XXVII. 


Dead,  long  dead, 

Long  dead ! 

And  my  heart  is  a  handful  of  dust. 

And  the  wheels  go  over  my  head; 

And  my  bones  are  shaken  with  pain, 

For   into   a    shallow  grave    they   are 

thrust, 
Only  a  yard  beneath  the  street. 
And  the  hoofs  of  the  horses  beat,  beat, 
The  hoofs  of  the  horses  beat. 
Beat  into  my  scalp  and  my  brain. 
With  never  an  end  to  the  stream  of 

passing  feet, 


Driving,  hurrying,  marrying,  burying. 
Clamor  and  rumble,  and  ringing  and 

clatter. 
And  here  beneath  it  is  all  as  bad. 
For  I  thought  the  dead  had  peace,  but 

it  is  not  so ; 
To  have  no  peace  in  the  grave,  is  that 

not  sad  ? 
But  up  and  down  and  to  and  fro. 
Ever  about  me  the  dead  men  go  ; 
And  then  to  hear  a  dead  man  chatter 
Is  enough  to  drive  one  mad. 


Wretchedest  age,  since  Time  began. 

They  cannot  even  bury  a  man ; 

And  tho'  we  paid  our  tithes  in  the  days 

that  are  gone. 
Not  a  bell  was  rung,  not  a  prayer  was 

read  ; 
It  is  that  which  makes  us  loud  in  the 

world  of  the  dead ; 
There  is  none  that  does  his  work,  not 

one: 
A  touch  of  their  office  might  have  suf- 
ficed, 
But  the  churchmen  fain  would  kill  their 

church. 
As   the   churches    have    kill'd    their 

Christ. 


See,  there  is  one  of  us  sobbing. 

No  limit  to  his  distress; 

And  another,  a  lord  of  all  things, 
praying 

To  his  own  great  self,  as  I  guess ; 

And  another,  a  statesman  there,  be- 
traying 

His  party-secret,  fool,  to  the  press ; 

And  yonder  a  vile  physician,  babbling 

The  case  of  his  patient, — all  for  what  ? 

To  tickle  the  maggot  born  in  an  empty 
head, 

And  wheedle  a  world  that  loves  him 
not. 

For  it  is  but  a  world  of  the  dead. 

4- 
Nothing  but  idiot  gabble  ! 
For  the  prophecy  given  of  old 


MAUD. 


239 


And  then  not  understood, 

Has  come  to  pass  as  foretold ; 

Not  let  any  man  think  for  the  public 

good, 
But  babble,  merely  for  babble. 
For  I  never  whisper'd  a  private  affair 
"Within  the  hearing  of  cat  or  mouse, 
No,  not  to  myself  in  the  closet  alone, 
But  I  heard  it  shouted  at  once  from  the 

top  of  the  house  ; 
Everything  came  to  be  known : 
Who  told  him  we  were  there  ? 

5- 
Not  that  gray  old  wolf,  for  he  came 

not  back 
From   the  wilderness,  full  of  wolves, 

where  he  used  to  lie  ; 
He  has  gather'd  the  bones  for  his  o'er- 

grown  whelp  to  crack  ; 
Crack    them    now    for    yourself,   and 

howl,  and  die. 
6. 
Prophet,  curse  me  the  babbling  lip, 
And  curse  me  the  British  vermin,  the 

rat; 
I  know   not   whether  he  came  in  the 

Hanover  ship, 
But  I  know  that  he   lies  and  listens 

mute 
In  an  ancient  mansion's  crannies  and 

holes : 
Arsenic,  arsenic,  sure,  would  do  it, 
Except  that  now  we  poison  our  babes, 

poor  souls ! 
It  is  all  used  up  for  that. 

7. 
Tell  him  now :  she  is  standing  here  at 

my  head ; 
Not  beautiful  now,  not  even  kind  ; 
He  may  take  her  now ;  for  she  never 

speaks  her  mind. 
But  is  ever  the  one  thing  silent  here. 
She  is  not  of  us,  as  I  divine ; 
She  comes  from  another  stiller  world 

of  the  dead, 
Stiller,  not  fairer  than  mine. 


But  I  know  where  a  garden  grows, 
J"airer  than  aught  in  the  world  beside, 


All  made  up  of  the  lily  and  rose 
That  blow  by  night,  when  the  season  is 

good. 
To  the  sound  of  dancing  music  and 

flutes : 
It  is  only  flowers,  they  had  no  fruits, 
And  I  almost  fear  they  are  not  roses, 

but  blood ; 
For  the  keeper  was  one,  so  full   of 

pride, 
He  linkt  a  dead  man  there  to  a  spectral 

bride ; 
For  he,  if  he  had  not  been  a  Sultan  of 

brutes. 
Would  he  have  that  hole  in  his  side  ? 


But  what  will  the  old  man  say  ? 

He  laid  a  cruel  snare  in  a  pit 

To  catch  a  friend  of  mine  one  stormy 

day; 
Yet  now  I  could  even  weep  to  think  of 

it; 
For  what  will  the  old  man  say 
When  he  comes  to  the  second  corpse 

in  the  pit  ? 

10. 

Friend,  to  be  struck  by  the  publi     foe, 
Then  to  strike  him  and  lay  him  low, 
That  were  a  public  merit,  far. 
Whatever  the  Quaker  holds,  from  sin  ; 
But  the   red  life  spilt  for  a  private 

blow — 
I  swear  to  you,  lawful  and  lawless  war 
Are  scarcely  even  akin. 


0  me,  why  have  they  not  buried  me 

deep  enough  ? 
Is  it  kind  to  have  made  me  a  grave  so 

rough, 
Me,  that  was  never  a  quiet  sleeper  ? 
Maybe  still  I  am  but  half-dead ; 
Then  I  cannot  be  wholly  dumb ; 

1  will  cry  to  the  steps  above  my  head. 
And  somebody,  surely,  some  kind  heart 

will  come 
To  bury  me,  bury  me 
Deeper,  ever  so  little  deeper. 


2^0 


MAC/D. 


XXVIII. 


My  life  has  crept  so  long  on  a  broken 

wing 
Fhro'  cells  of  madness,  haunts  of  horror 

and  fear, 
That  I  come  to  be  grateful  at  last  for 

a  little  thing: 
My   mood  is  changed,  for  it  fell  at  a 

time  of  year 
»When  the  face  of  the  night  is  fair  on 

the  dewy  downs, 
And  the  shining  daffodil  dies,  and  the 

Charioteer 
And  starry  Gemini  hang  like  glorious 

crowns 
Over  Orion's  grave  low  down  in'  the 

west, 
That  like  a  silent  lightning  under  the 

stars 
She  seem'd  to  divide  in  a  dream  from 

a  band  of  the  blest, 
And  spoke  of  a  hope  for  the  world  in 

the  coming  wars — 
*'  And  in    that    hope,  dear    soul,   let 

trouble  have  rest. 
Knowing  I  tarry  for  thee,"  and  pointed 

to  Mars 
As  heglow'd  like  a  ruddy  shield  on  the 

Lion's  breast. 


And  it  was  but  a  dream,  yet  it  yielded 

a  dear  delight 
To  have  looked,  tho'  but  in  a  dream, 

upon  eyes  so  fair. 
That  had  been  in  a  weary  world  my 

one  thing  bright; 
And  it  was  but  a  dream,  yet  itlighten'd 

my  despair 
When  I  thought  that  a  war  would  arise 

in  defence  of  the  right, 
That  an  iron  tyranny  now  should  bend 

or  cease. 
The   glory   of  manhood  stand  on  his 

ancient  height, 
Nor  Britain's  one  sole  God  be  the  mil- 
lionaire : 
No  more  shall  commerce  be  all  in  all, 

and  Peace 


Pipe  on  her  pastoral  hillock  a  languid 
note, 

And  watch  her  harvest  ripen,  her  herd 
increase. 

Nor  the  cannon-bullet  rust  on  a  sloth- 
ful shore, 

And  the  cobweb  woven  across  the  can- 
non's throat 

Shall  shake  its  threaded  tears  in  the 
wind  no  more. 


And  as  months  ran  on  and  rumor  of 

battle  grew, 
"It    is  time,  it  is  time,   O  passionate 

heart,"  said  I 
(For  I  cleaved  to  a  cause  that  I  felt  to 

be  pure  and  true), 
"It  is  time,  O  passionate  heart  and 

morbid  eye. 
That  old  hysterical  mock-disease  should 

die." 
And  I  stood  on  a  giant  deck  and  mix'd 

my  breath 
With  a  loyal  people  shouting  a  battle 

cry. 
Till  I  saw  the  dreary  phantom  arise 

and  fly 
Far  into  the  North,  and  battle,  and  seas 

of  death. 

4- 
Let  it  go  or  stay,  so  I  wake  to  the 

higher  aims 
Of  a  land  that  has  lost  for  a  little  her 

lust  of  gold, 
And  love  of  a  peace  that  was  full  of 

wrongs  and  shames, 
Horrible,  hateful,  monstrftus,  not  to  be 

told; 
And  hail  once  more  to  the  banner  of 

battle  unroll'd  ! 
Tho'  many  a  light  shall  darken,  and 

many  shall  weep 
For  those  that  are  crush'd  in  the  clash 

of  jarring  claims. 
Yet  God's  just  wrath  shall  be  wreak'd 

on  a  giant  liar  ; 
And   many  a   darkness   into  the  light 

shall  leap, 
And   shine  in  the  sudden   making  of 

splen«iid  names, 


THE  BROOK. 


241 


And  noble  thought  be  freer  under  the 

sun, 
And  the  heart  of  a  people  beat  with 

one  desire ; 
For  the  peace,  that  I  deem'd  no  peace, 

is  over  and  done, 
And  now  by  the  side  of  the  Black  and 

the  Baltic  deep. 
And   deathful-grinning   mouths  of  the 

fortress  flames   . 
The  blood-ied  blossom  of  war  with  a 

heart  of  fire. 


Let  it  flame  or  fade,  and  the  war  roll 

down  like  a  wind. 
We  have  proved  we  have  hearts  in  a 

cause,  we  are  noble  still, 
And  myself  have  awaked,  as  it  seems, 

to  the  better  mind ; 
It  is  better  to  fight  for  the  good,  than 

to  rail  at  the  ill ; 
I  have  felt  with  my  native  land,  I  am 

one  with  my  kind, 
I  embrace  the  purpose  of  God,  and  the 

doom  assign'd. 


THE  BROOK; 

AN    IDYL. 

"  Here,  by  this  brook,  we  parted  ;  I  to 

the  East 
And  he  for  Italy — too  late — too  late  : 
One  whom  the  strong  sons  of  the  world 

despise ; 
For   lucky   rhymes  to  him  were  scrip 

and  share, 
And  mellow  metres  more  than  cent  for 

cent; 
Nor  could  he  understand  how  ©loney 

breeds, 
Thought  is  a  dead  thing ;  yet  himself 

could  make 
The  thing  that  is  not  as  the  thing  that 

is. 
O  had  he  lived  1     In  our  school-books 

we  say. 
Of  those  that  held  their  heads  above 

the  crowd, 


They  flourish'd  then  or.  then ;  but  life 

in  him 
Could  scarce  be  said  to  flourish,  only 

touch'd 
On  such  a  time  as  goes  before  the  leaf. 
When  all  the  wood  stands  in  a  mist  of 

green. 
And  nothing  perfect  :  yet  the  book  he 

loved, 
For   which,  in  branding    summers   of 

Bengal, 
Or  ev'n  the   sweet  half-English  Neil- 

gherry  air, 
I  panted,  seems,  as  I  re-listen  to  it. 
Prattling  tl\e  primrose  fancies  of  the 

boy. 
To  me  that  loved  him ;  for  *  O  brook,* 

he  says, 
*  O  babbling  brook,'  says  Edmund  in 

his  rhyme, 
'  Whence  come  you  ? '  and  the  brook, 

why  not  ?  replies. 

I  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern, 

I  make  a  sudden  sally 
And  sparkle  oiit  among  the  fern, 

To  bicker  down  a  valley. 

By  thirty  hills  I  hurry  down. 
Or  slip  between  the  ridges. 

By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town, 
And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Philip's  farm  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river. 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever. 

"  Poor  lad,  he  died  at  Florence,  quite 
worn  out. 

Travelling  to  Naples.  There  is  Darn- 
ley  bridge, 

It  has  more  ivy ;  there  the  river  ;  and 
there 

Stands  Philip's  farm  where  brook  and 
river  meet. 

I  chatter  over  stony  .ways. 
In  little  sharps  and  trebles, 

I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 
I  babble  on  the  pebbles, 


242 


THE  BROOK. 


With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret 
By  many  a  field  and  fallow, 

And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 
With  willow-weed  and  mallow. 

I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go. 
But  I  go  on  forever. 

"  But   Philip   chatter'd   more    than 
brook  or  bird ; 
Old  Philip ;  all   about  the  fields  you 
caught 
His  weary  daylong  chirping,  like  the 
dry 
Iligh-elbow'd  grigs  that  leap   in   sum- 
mer grass. 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 
With  here  a  blossom  sailing, 

And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 
And  here  and  there  a  grayling, 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Upon  me,  as  I  travel 
With  many  a  silvery  waterbreak 

Above  the  golden  gravel, 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river. 
For   men  may  come   and   men   may 

But  I  go  on  forever. 

*' O  darling  Katie  Willows,  his  one 

child  ! 
A  maiden  of    our    century,   yet   most 

meek  ; 
A  daughter  of  our   meadows,  yet  not 

coarse  ; 
Straight,  but  as    lissome  as  a  hazel 

wand ; 
Her  eyes  a  bashful  azure,  and  her  hair 
In  gloss  and  hue  the  chestnut,  when 

the  shell 
Divides    threefold   to   show   the    fruit 

within. 

"  Sweet  Katie,  once  I  did  her  a  good 
turn, 
Her  and  her  far-off    cousin  and  be- 
trothed, 


James  Willows,  of  one  name  and  heart 

with  her. 
For  here  I  came,  twenty  years  back, — 

the  week 
Before   I  parted  with  poor  Edmund; 

crost 
By  that  old  bridge  which,  half  in  ruins 

then. 
Still  makes  a  hoary   eyebrow  for   the 

gleam 
Beyond  it,  where    the  waters  marry — 

crost. 
Whistling    a   random  bar    of    Bonny 

Doon, 
And   push'd  at    Philip's   garden-gate. 

The  gate, 
Half-parted  from  a  weak  and  scolding 

hinge, 
Stuck  ;  and  he  clamor'd  from  a   case- 
ment, 'run ' 
To   Kjtie    somewhere   in   the     walks 

below, 
*  Run,  Katie  ! '  Katie  never  ran  ;  she 

moved 
To  meet  me,  winding  under  woodbine 

bowers, 
A  little  fluttered  with  her  eyelids  down, 
Fresh   apple-blossom,   blushing  for  a 

boon. 

"  What  was  it  ?  less   of    sentiment 

than  sense 
Had  Katie;  not  illiterate  ;  neither  one 
Who  dabbling  in   the  fount  of  fictive 

tears. 
And  nursed  by  mealy-mouthed  philan- 
thropies, 
Divorce  the  Feeling  from  her  mate  the 

Deed. 
"  She  told  me.     She   and  James  had 

quarrell'd.     Why  ? 
What  cause   of  quarrel  ?    None,   she 

said,  no  cause ; 
James  had  no  cause  :  but  when  I  prest 

the  cause, 
I   learnt    that  James   had     flickering 

jealousies 
Which    anger'd     her.     Who    anger'd 

James  "i  I  said. 
But  Katie   snatch'd  her  eyes  at  once 

from  mine. 


THE  BROOK. 


243 


And  sketching  with  her  slender-pointed 

foot 
Some  figure  like  a  wizard's  pentagram 
On  gi»rden  grave),  let  my  query  pass 
Unclaim'd,.  in  flushing  silence,  till  I 

ask'd 
It  James  were  coming.    *  Coming  every 

day,' 
She  answer'd,  'ever  longing  to  explain, 
But  evermore  her  father  came  across 
With  somelong-jvinded  tale,  and  broke 

him  short ; 
And  James  departed  vext  with  him  and 

her' 
How  could  I  help   her  ?     *  Would  I — 

was  it  wrong  ? ' 
(Claspt  hands  and    that    petitionary 

graci 
Of  sweet  seventeen  subdued  me  ere 

she  spoke) 
'  O  would  I  take   her  father  for  one 

hour, 
For  one  half-hour,  and  let  him  talk  to 

me  !' 
And   even   while  she    spoke,   I    saw 

where  James 
Made  towards  us,  like  a  wader  in  the 

surf. 
Beyond  the  brook,  waist-deep  in   mea- 
dow-sweet. 

•'  O  Katie,  what  I   suffer'd  for  your 

sake ! 
For  in  I   went  and  call'd  old   Philip 

out 
To  show  the  farm :  full  willingly  he 

rose  : 
He  led  me  thro'  the  short  sweet-smell- 
ing lanes 
Of  his  wheat  suburb,  babbling  as  he 

went. 
He  praised   his  land,  his  horses,  his 

machines ; 
He  praised  his  ploughs,  his  cows,  his 

hogs,  his  dogs ; 
He  praised   his   hens,   his  geese,  his 

guinea-hens ; 
His  pigeons,  who  in  session  on  theii 

roofs 
Approved  him,  bowing  at  their  own 

deserts  : 


Then  from  the  plaintive  mother's  teat, 

he  took 
Her  blind   and  shuddering    puppies, 

naming  each. 
And  naming   those,   his     friends,   for 

whom  they  were  : 
Then  crost  the    common  into  Darnley 

chase 
To  show  Sir  Arthur's  deer.     In  copse 

and  fern 
Twinkled  the    innumerable  ear    and 

tail. 
Then,  seated  on  a  serpent-rooted  beech, 
He  pointed  out  a  pasturing  colt,  and 

said: 
*  That  was  the  four-year-old  I  sold  the 

squire.' 
And  there  he  told  a  long,  long-winded 

tale 
Of  how  the  squire  had  seen  the  colt  at 

grass. 
And  how  it  was  the  thing  his  daughter 

wish'd. 
And  how  he  sent  the  bailiff  to  the  farm 
To  learn  the  price,  and  what  the   price 

he  ask'd, 
And  how  the  bailiff  swore  that  he  was 

mad. 
But  he  stood  firm  ;  and  so  the  matter 

hung ; 
He  gave  them  line  :  and  five  days  after 

that 
He  met  the  bailiff  at  the  Golden  Fleece, 
Who  then  and  there  had  offer'd  some- 
thing more, 
But  he  stood  firm  ;  and  so  the   matter 

hung  ; 
He  knew  the  man ;  the  colt  would  fetch 

its  price; 
He  gave    them    line :  and    how     by 

chance  at  last 
(It  might  be  May  or  April,  he  forgot, 
The  last  of  April  or  the  first  May) 
He  found   the  bailiff    riding  by  the 

farm. 
And,  talking  from  the  point,  he  drew 

him  in, 
And  there   he   mellow'd  all   his  heart 

with  ale. 
Until  they  closed  a  bargain,  hand  in 

hand. 


244 


THE  BROOK. 


*'  Then,  while  I  breathed  in  sight  of 
haven,  he, 

Poor  fellow,  could  he  help  it?  recom- 
menced. 

And  ran  thro'  all  the  coltish  chronicle, 

Wild  Will,  Black  Bess,  Tantivy, 
Tallyho, 

Reform,  White  Rose,  Bellerophon,  the 
Jilt, 

Arbaces  and  Phenomenon,  and  the 
rest, 

Till,  not  to  die  a  listener,  I  arose, 

And  with  me  Philip,  talking  still ;  and 

30 

He  turn'd  our  foreheads  from  the  fall- 
ing sun, 

And  following  our  own  shadows  thrice 
as  long 

As  when  they  follow'd  us  from  Philip's 
door. 

Arrived,  and  found  the  sun  of  sweet 
content 

Re-risen  in  Katie's  eyes,  and  all  things 
well. 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots, 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers  ; 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance, 
Among  my  skimming  swallows  ; 

I  make  the  netted  sumbeam  dance 
Against  my  sandy  shallows 

I  murmur  under  moon  and  stars 
In  brambly  wildernesses  ; 

I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars  ; 
I  loiter  round  my  cresses  ; 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may 

go. 
But  I  go  on  forever. 

Yes,  men  may  come  and  go ;  and  these 
are  gone. 

All  gone.  My  dearest  brother,  Ed- 
mund, sleeps. 

Not  by  the  well-known  stream  and 
rustic  spire. 


But  unfamiliar  Arno,  and  the  dome 
Of  Brunelleschi ;  sleeps  in  peace  :  and 

he. 
Poor  Philip,  of  all  his  lavish  waste  of 

words 
Remains  the  lean  P.  W.,  on  his  tomb : 
I  scraped   the  lichen  from  it:  Katie 

walks 
By  the  long  wash  of  Australasian  seas 
Far  off,  and  holds  her  head  to  other 

stars, 
And  breathes    in    converse    seasons. 

All  are  gone." 

So  Lawrence  Alymer,  seated  on  a 

stile 
In  the  long  hedge,  and  rolling  in  his 

mind 
Old  waifs  of  rhyme,  and  bowing  o'er 

the  brook 
A  tonsured  head  in  middle  age  forlorn. 
Mused,  and  was  mute.     On  a  sudden 

a  low  breath 
Of  tender  air  made    tremble    in  the 

hedge 
The.fragile  bindweed-bells  and  briony 

rings ; 
And   he  look'd  up.    There    stood  a 

maiden  near,  [stared 

Waiting  to  pass.     In   much   amaze  he 
On  eyes  a  bashful  azure,  and  on  hair 
In  gloss  and  hue   the  chestnut,  when 

the  shell 
Divides  threefold  to  show    the  fruit 

within : 
Then,  wondering,  ask'd  her,  "Are you 

from  the  farm  ?  " 
"  Yes,"  answer'd  she.    "  Pray  stay  a 

little  :  pardon  me ; 
What  do  they  call  you?"    "Katie." 

*'  That  were  strange. 
What  surname  ? "  "  Willows."  "  No  I " 

"  That  is  my  name." 
"  Indeed !  "  and  here  he  look'd  so  self- 

perplext, 
That     Katie    laugh'd,  and     laughing 

blush'd,  till  he 
Laugh'd   also,  but  as  one   before  he 

wakes. 
Who  feels  a  glimmering  strangeness 

in  his  dream. 


THE  LETTERS. 


245 


Then  looking  at  her;  "Too  happy, 

fresh  and  fair, 
Too  fresh  and  fair  in  our  sad   world's 

best  bloom, 
To  be  the  ghost  of  one  who  bore  your 

name 
About  these   meadows,   twenty  years 

ago." 

"  Have  you  not  heard  ?  '*  said  Katie, 
"  we  came  back. 

We  bought  the  farm  we  tenanted  be- 
fore. 

Am  I  so  like  her?  so  they  said  on 
board. 

Sir,  if  you  knew  her  in  her  English 
days. 

My  mother,  as  it  seems  you  did,  the 
days 

That  most  she  loves  to  talk  of,  come 
with  me. 

My  brother  James  is  in  the  harvest- 
field  : 

But  she— you  will  be  welcome  —  O, 
come  in !  " 


THE  LETTERS. 


Still  on  the  tower  stood  the  vane, 

A  black  yew  gloom'd   the  stagnant 
air, 
I  peer'd  athwart  the  chancel  pane 

And  saw  the  altar  cold  and  bare. 
A  clog  of  lead  was  round  my  feet, 

A  band  of  pain  across  my  brow  : 
"  Cold  altar.  Heaven   and  earth   shall 
meet 

Before  you  hear  my  marriage  vow." 


I  turn'd  and  humm'd  a  bitter  song 
That  mock'd  the  wholesome  human 
heart, 
And  then  we  met  in  wrath  and  wrong, 

We  met,  but  only  meant  to  part. 
Full  cold  my  greeting  was  and  dry  ; 
She     faintly    smiled,     she     hardly 
moved ; 


I  saw  with  half-unconscious  eye 
She  wore  the  colors  I  approved. 


She  took  the  little  ivory  chest, 

With  half  a  sigh  she  turn'd  the  ke}', 

Then  raised  her  head  with  lips  com- 
prest. 
And  gave  my  letters  back  to  me. 

And  gave  the  trinkets  and  the  rings. 

'  My  gifts,  when  gifts  of  mine  could 
please ; 

As  looks  a  father  on  the  things 
Of  his  dead  son,  I  look'd  on  these. 


She  told  me  all  her  friends  had  said; 

I  raged  against  the  public  liar  ; 
She  talk'd  as  if  her  love  were  dead, 

But  in  my  words  were  seeds  of  fire. 
" No  more  of  love;  your  sex  is  known i 

I  never  will  be  twice  deceived. 
Henceforth  I  trust  the  man  alone. 

The  woman  cannot  be  believed. 

5- 
"Thro'    slander,    meanest    spawn    of 
Hell 
(And  women's  slander  is  the  worst), 
And  you,  whom  once  I  loved  so  well. 
Thro'  you,  my  life  will  be  accurst." 
I    spoke   with    heart,    and   heat,   and 
force, 
I    shook    her    breast    with    vague 
alarms — 
Like  torrents  from  a  mountain  source 
We  rush'd  into  each  other's  ^rms.  • 

6. 

We  parted  :  sweetly  gleam'd  the  f  tars, 

And  sweet  the  vapor-braided  blue. 
Low  breezes  fann'd  the  belfry  bars, 

As  homeward  by  the  church  I  drew. 
The  very  graves  appear'd  to  smile, 
So    fresh    they    rose    in    shadow'd 
swells; 
"Dark   porch,"    I   said,   "and    silent 
aisle 
There   comes  a  sound  of  marriage 
bells." 


l^d  ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON. 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE 
DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON. 


Bury  the  Great  Duke 

With  an  empire's  lamentation, 
Let  us  bury  the  Great  Duke 

To  the  noise  of  the  mourning  of  a 
mighty  nation, 
Mourning  when  their  leaders  fall, 
Warriors  carry  the  warrior's  pall, 
And  sorrow  darkens  hamlet  and  hall. 


Where  shall  we  lay  the  man  whom  we 

deplore  ? 
Here,  in  streaming  London's  central 

roar. 
Let  the  sound  of  those  he  wrought  for, 
And  the  feet  of  those  he  fought  for. 
Echo  round  his  bones  forevermore. 


Lead  out  the  pageant :  sad  and  slow, 
As  fits  an  universal  woe, 
Let  the  long  long  procession  go, 
And  let  the  sorrowing  crowd  about  it 

grow. 
And  let  the  m.ournful  martial  music 

blow ; 
The  last  great  Englishman  is  low. 


Mourn,  for  to  us  he  seems  the  last. 

Remembering  all  his  greatness  in  the 
Paet. 

;No  more  in  soldier  fashion  will  he 
greet 

With  lifted  hand  the  gazer  in  the 
street. 

O  friends,  our  chief  state-oracle  Is 
dead:        "' 

Mourn  for  the  man  olJpng-eii.dMrii3g 
blood. 

The  statesman- warrior,  moderate,  res- 
olute. 

Whole  in  himself,  a  common  good. 

Mourn  for  the  man  of  amplest  in- 
fluence, 

Yet  clearest  of  ambitious  crime. 


Our  greatest  yet  with  least  pretence. 
Great  in. council  and  great  in  war, 
Foremost  captain  of  his  time. 
Rich  in  saving  common-sense. 
And,  as  the  greatest  only  are, 
In  his  simplicity  sublime. 
O  good  gray  head  which  all  men  knew, 
O  voice  from  which  their  omens  ail 

men  drew, 
O  iron  nerve  to  true  occasion  true, 
O  fall'n  at  length  that  tower  of  strength 
Which   stood   four-square   to, _all   the 

winds  that  blew ! 
Such  was  he  whom  we  deplore. 
The  long  self-sacrifice  of  life  is  o'er. 
The  great  World-victor's  victor  will  be 

seen  no  more. 


All  is  over  and  done : 

Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 

England,  for  thy  son. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll'd. 

Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 

And  render  him  to  the  mould. 

Under  the  cross  of  gold 

That  shines  over  city  and  river. 

There  he  shall  rest  forever 

Among  the  wise  and  the  bold. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll'd : 

And  a  reverent  people  behold 

The  towering  car,  the  sable  steeds : 

Bright  let  it  be  with  his  blazon'd 
deeds. 

Dark  in  its  funeral  fold. 

Let  the  bell  be  tolled  : 

And  a  deeper  knell  in  the  heart  be 
knqll'd; 

And  the  sound  of  the  sorrowing  an- 
them roll'd 

Thro'  the  dome  of  the  golden  cross  ; 

And  the  volleying  cannon  thunder  his 
loss ; 

He  knew  their  voices  of  old. 

For  many  a  time  in  many  a  clime 

His  captain's-ear  has  heard  them 
boom 

Bellowing  victory,  bellowing  doom  ; 

When  he  with  those  deep  voices 
wrought,  [shame ; 

Guarding    realms    and    kings    from 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON.     2dy 


With  those  deep  voices  our  dead  cap- 
tain taught 
The  tyrant,  and  asserts  his  claim 
In  that  dread  sound  to  the  great  man, 
Which  he  has  worn  so  pure  of  blame, 
In  praise  and  in  dispraise  the  same, 
A  man  of  well-attemper'd  frame. 
O  civic  muse,  to  such  a  name, 
To  such  a  name  for  ages  long. 
To  such  a  name, 

I'reserve  a  broad  approach  of  fame, 
And  ever-ringing  avenues  of  song. 


Who  is  he  that  cometh,  like  an  hon- 

or'd  guest, 
With   banner    and  with    music,   with 

soldier  and  with  priest, 
With  a  nation  weeping,  and  breaking 

on  my  rest  ? 
Mighty  seaman,  this  is  he 
"N^as  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea. 
Thine    island   loves    thee   well,   thou 

famous  man, 
The   greatest   sailor   since   our  world 

began. 
Now,  to  the  roll  of  muffled  drums. 
To  thee  the  greatest  soldier  comes  ; 
For  this  is  he 

Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea; 
His  foes  were  thine  ;  he  kept  us  free ; 
O  give  him  welcome,  this  is  he, 
Worthy  of  our  gorgeous  rites, 
And  worthy  to  be  laid  by  thee; 
For  this  is  England's  greatest  son, 
He  that  gain'd  a  hundred  fights, 
Nor  ever  lost  an  English  gun; 
This  is  he  that  far  away 
Against  the  myriads  of  Assaye 
Clash'd  with  his  fiery  few  and  won; 
And  underneath  another  sun. 
Warring  on  a  later  day, 
Round  affrighted  Lisbon  drew 
The  treble  works,  the  vast  designs 
Of  his  labor'd  rampart-lines. 
Where  he  greatly  stood  at  bay. 
Whence  he  issued  forth  anew. 
And  ever  great  and  greater  grew, 
Beating  from  the  wasted  vines 


Back  to  France  her  banded  swarms, 
Back  to  France  with  countless  blows, 
Till  o'er  the  hills  her  eagles  flew 
Past  the  Pyrenean  pines, 
FoUow'd  up  in  valley  and  glen 
With  blare  of  bugle,  clamor  of  men, 
Roll  of  cannon  and  clash  of  arms, 
And  England  pouring  on  her  foes. 
Such  a  war  had  such  a  close. 
Again  their  ravening  eagle  rose 
In  anger,  wheel'd  on  Europe-shadow- 
ing wings. 
And  barking  for  the  thrones  of  kings ; 
Till  one  that  sought  but  Duty's  iron 

crown 
On  that  loud  Sabbath  shook  the  spoiler 

down; 
A  day  of  onsets  of  despair  ! 
Dash'd  on  everj*  rocky  square 
Their  surging  charges  foam'd  them 

selves  away  ; 
Last,  the  Prussian  trumpet  blew  ; 
Thro'  the  long-tormented  air 
Heaven  fiash'd  a  sudden  jubilant  ray. 
And  down  we  swept  and  charged  and 

overthrew. 
So  great  a  soldier  taught  us  there, 
What  long-enduring  hearts  could  do  " 
In  that  world's-earthquake,  Waterloo  !- 
Mighty  seaman,  tender  and  true, 
And  pure  as  he  from"  taint  of  craven 

guile, 
O  saviour  of  the  silver-coasted  isle, 
O  shaker  of  the  Baltic  and  the  Nile, 
If  aught  of  things  that  here  befall 
Touch  a  spirit^among  things  divine, 
If  love  of  country  move  thee  there  at 

all, 
B£^lad^)ecause  his  bones  are  laid  by 

TliTneX 
And  thro'  the  centuries  let  a  people's 

voice 
In  full  acclaim, 
A  people's  voice, 
The  proof  and  echo    of    all   human 

fame, 
A  people's  voice,  when  they  rejoice 
At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game. 
Attest  their  great  commander's  claim 
With  honor,  honor,  honor  to  him, 
Eternal  honor  to  his  name. 


24S     ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON. 


A  people's  voice  i   we   are   a  people 

yet. 
Tho'  all  men  else  their  nobler  dreams 

forget 
Confused  by  brainless  mobs  and  law- 
less Powers ; 
Thank  Him  who  isled  us  here,  and 

roughly  set 
His  Saxon  in  blown  seas  and  storming 

showers, 
We  have  a  voice,  with  which  to  pay 

the  debt 
Of  boundless  love  and  reverence  and 

regret 
To  those  great  men  who  fought,  and 

kept  it  ours. 
And  keep  it  ours,  O  God,  from  brute 

control ; 
O  Statesmen,  guard  us,  guard  the  eye, 

the  soul 
Of  Europe,  keep  our  noble  England 

whole, 
And  save  the  one  true  seed  of  freedom 

sown 
Betwixt  a  people  and  their    ancient 

throne. 
That  sober  freedom  out  of  which  there 

springs 
Our  loyal  passion  for  our  temperate 

kings ;  [kind 

For,  saving  that,  ye  help  to  save  man- 
Till   public  wrong   be  crumbled    into 

dust, 
And  drill  the  raw  world  for  the  march 

of  mine. 
Till  crowds  at    length  be   sane  and 

crowns  be  just. 
But  wink  no   more   in   slothful  over- 
trust. 
Remember  him  who  led  your  hosts ^  — 
He  bade  you  guard  the  sacred  coasts, 
Your  cannons  moulder  on  the  seaward 

wall ; 
His   voice   is   silent  in  your  council- 
hall 
Forever ;  and  whatever  tempests  lower 
Forever  silent ;  even  if  they  broke 
In  thunder,  silent ;  yet  remember  all 
He  spoke   among  you,  and  the  Man 

who  spoke  ; 


Who  never ^old  the  truth  to  seryejhfi 

hour,    "^^  "  "  ' 

Nor   palter'd  with   Eternal   God   for 

power ; 
Who  let  the  turbid  streams  of  rumor 

flow 
Thro'  either  babbling  world  of  high 

and  low 
Whose  life  was  work,  whose  language 

rife 
With  rugged  maxims  hewn  from  life  ; 
Who  never  spoke  against  a  foe  ; 
Whose  eighty  winters  freeze  with  one 

rebuke  [''ight : 

All  great  self-seekers  trampling  on  the 
Truth-teller  was  our  England's  Alfred 

named ; 
Truth-lover  was  our  English  Duke  ; 
Whatever  record  leap  to  light 
He  never  shall  be  shamed. 

8. 

Lo,  the  leader  in  these  glorious  wars 
Now  to  glorious  burial  slowly  borne, 
Follow'd  by  the  brave  of  other  lands, 
He,   on   whom   from    both   her   open 

hands 
Lavish  Honor  shower'd  all  her  stars, 
And  affluent  Fortune  emptied  all  her 

horn. 
Yea,  let  all  good  things  await 
Him  who  cares  not  to  be  great, 
But  as  he  saves  or  serves  the  state. 
Not  once  or  twice  in  our  rough  island- 

The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory: 
He  that  walks  it,  only  thirsting 
For  the  right,  and  learns  to  deaden 
Love  of  self,* before  his  joiirney  closes,^ 
He  shallfind  the  stubborn  thistle  bur- 
sting 
Into  glossy  _purples,  which  outredden 
All  voluptuoiis'garden-roses. 
Not  once  or  twice  in  our  fair  island- 
story, 
The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory: 
He,  that  ever  following  her  commands. 
On  with  toil  of  heart  and  knees  and 

hands, 
Thro'  the  long  gorge  to  the  far  light 
has  won 


THE  DAISY. 


249 


His.  path  upward,  and  prevail'd. 

Shall  find  the  toppling  crags  of  Duty 
scaled 

Are  close  upon  the  shining  table- 
lands 

To  which  our  God  Himself  is  moon 
and  sun. 

Such  was  he  :  his  work  is  done. 

But  while  the  races  of  mankind  en- 
dure, 

Let  his  great  example  stand 

Colossal,  seen  of  every  land, 

And  keep  the  soldier  firm,  the  states- 
man pure ; 

Till  in  all  lands  and  thro'  all  human 
story 

The  path  of  duty  be  the  way  to  glory: 

And  let  the  land  whose  he^Tths  he 
saved  from  shame 

For  many  and  many  an  age  proclaim 

At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 

And  when  the  long-illumined  cities 
flame. 

Their  ever-loyal  iron  leader's  fame^ 

With  honor,  honor,  honor,  honor  to 
him, 

Eternal  honor  to  his  name. 


9- 

Peace,  his  triumph  will  be  sung 
By  some  yet  unmoulded  tongue 
Far  on  in  summers  that  we  shall  not 

see : 
Peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 
For  one  about  whose  patriarchal  knee 
Late  the  little  children  clung  : 
O  peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 
For  one,  upon  whose  hand  and  heart 

and  brain 
Once  the  weight  and  fate  of  Europe 

hung. 
Ours  the  pain,  be  his  the  gain  ! 
More  than  is  of  man's  degree" 
Must  be  with  us,  watching  here 
At  this,  our  great  solemnity. 
Whom  we  see  not  we  revere. 
We  revere,  and  we  refrain 
From  talk  of  battles  loud  and  vain, 
And  brawling  memories  all  too  free 
For  such  a  wise  humili^ 
As  befits  a  solemn  fangj.. 


We  revere,  and  while  we  hear 

The  tides  of  Music's  golden  sea 

Setting  toward  eternity. 

Uplifted  high  in  heart  and  hope  are 

we. 
Until  we  doubt   not   that  for   one  so 

true 
There  must  be  other  nobler  work  to 

do 
Than  when  he  fought  at  Waterloo, 
And  Victor  he  must  ever  be. 
For  tho'  the  Giant  Ages  heave  the  hill 
And  break  the  shore,  and  evermore 
Make  and  break,  and  work  their  will ; 
Tho'  world  on  world  in  mvriad  myriads 

roll 
Round  us,  each  with  different  powers, 
A^iid  other  forms  of  life  than  ours, 
What  know  we  greater  than  the  soul  ? 
On  God  and  Godlike  men  we  build 

our  trust. 
Hush,  the  Dead  March  wails  in  the 

people's  ears : 
The  dark  crowd  moves,  and  there  are 

sobs  and  tears : 
The   black-  earth  yawns ;  the  mortal 

disappears; 
Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust ; 
He  is  gone  who  seem'd  so  great.- — 
Gone  ;  but  nothing  can  bereave  him 
Of  the  force  he  made  his  own 
Being  here,  and  we  believe  him 
Something  far  advanced  in  state, 
And  that  he  wears  a  truer  crown 
Than  any  wreath  that  man  can  weave 

him 
But  speak  no  more  of  his  renown, 
Lay  your  earthly  fancies  down. 
And  in  the  vast  cathedral  leave  him. 
God  accept  him,  Christ  receive  him. 
1852. 


THE  DAISY. 

WRITTEN  AT  EDINBURGH. 

O  Love,  what  hours  were  thine  and 

mine. 
In  lands  of  palm  and  southern  pine ; 

In  lands  of  palm,  of  orange-blossom, 
Of  olive,  aloe,  and  maize  and  vine. 


250 


THE  DAISY. 


What  Roman  strength  Turbla  show'd 
In  ruin,  by  the  mountain  road ; 

How  like  a  gem,  beneath,  the  city 
Of  little  Monaco,  basking,  glow'd. 

How  richly  down  the  rocky  dell 
The  torrent  vineyard  streaming  fell 

To  meet  the  sun  and  sunny  waters, 
That  only  heaved  with  a  summer  swell. 

What  slender  campanili  grew 
By  bays,  the  peacock's  neck  in  hue ; 
Where,   here   and   there,   on   sandy 
beaches 
A  milky-bell'd  amaryllis  blew. 

How  young  Columbus  seem'd  to  rove. 
Yet  present  in  his  natal  grove, 

Now  watching    high   on   mountain 
cornice, 
And  steering,  now,  from  a  purple  cove, 

Now  pacing  mute  by  ocean's  rim ; 
Till,  in  a  narrow  street  and  dim, 

I  stay'd  the  wheels  at  Cogoletto, 
And  drank,  and  loyally  drank  to  him. 

Nor  knew  we  well  what   pleased  us 

most, 
Not    the   dipt    palm   of    which    they 

boast ; 
But  distant  color,  happy  hamlet, 
A  moulder'd  citadel  on  the  coast. 

Or  tower,  or  high  hill -convent,  seen 
A  light  amid  its  olives  green  ; 

Or  olive-hoary  cape  in  ocean ; 
Or  rosy  blossom  in  hot  ravine. 

Where  oleanders  flush'd  the  bed 
Of  silent  torrents,  gravel-spread  ; 

And,  crossing,  oft  we  saw  the  glisten 
Z>f  ice,  far  up  on  a  mountain  head. 

We   loved   that  hall,  tho'  white  and 

cold. 
Those  niched  shapes  of  noble  mould, 
A  princely  people's  awful  princes, 
The  grave,  severe  Genovese  of  old. 

At  Florence  too  what  golden  hours, 
In  those  long  galleries,  were  ours ; 


What  drives  about  the  fresh  Cascine, 
Or  walks  in  Boboli's  ducal  bowers. 

In  bright  vignettes,  and  each  complete, 
Of  tower  or  duomo,  sunny-sweet. 

Or  palace,  how  the  city  glitter'd, 
Thro'  cypress  avenues,  at  our  feet. 

But  when  we  crost  the  Lombard  plain 
Remember  wliat  a  plague  of  rain  ; 

Of  rain  at  Reggio,  rain  at  Parma ; 
At  Lodi,  rain,  Piacenza,  rain. 

And  stern  and  sad  (so  rare  the  smiles 
Of  sunlight)  look'd  the  Lombard  piles; 

Porch-pillars  on  the  lion  resting. 
And  sombre,  old,  colonnaded  aisles. 

0  Milan,  O  the  chanting  quires, 
The  giant  windows'  blazon'd  fires, 

The   height,  the   space,  the  gloom, 
the  glory  ! 
A  mount  of  marble,  a  hundred  spires  I 

1  climb'd  the  roofs  at  break  of  day ; 
Sun-smitten  Alps  before  me  lay. 

I  stood  among  the  silent  statues, 
And  statued  pinnacles,  mute  as  they. 

How  faintly-flush'd,  how  phantom-fair. 
Was  Monte  Rosa,  hanging  there 
A  thousand  shadowy-pencill'd  val- 
leys 
And  snowy  dells  in  a  golden  air. 

Remember  how  we  came  at  last 
To  Como;  shower  and  storm  and  blast 
Had   blown    the    lake  beyond    his 
limit, 
And  all  was  flooded;  and  how  we  past 

From  Como,  when  the  light  was  gray, 
And  in  my  head,  for  half  the  day, 

The  rich  Virgilian  rustic  measure 
Of  Lari  Maxume,  all  the  way. 

Like  ballad-burthen  music,  kept, 
As  on  the  Lariano  crept 

To  that  fair  port  below  the  castle 
Of  Queen  Theodolind,  where  we  slept; 

Or  hardly  slept,  but  watch'd  awake 
A  cypress  in  the  moonlight  shake, 


THE  DAISY. 


25J 


The  moonlight  touching  o'er  a  ter- 
race 
One  tall  Agave  above  the  lake. 

What  more  ?  we  took  our  last  adieu, 
And  up  the  snowy  Splugen  drew, 
But  ere  we  reach'd  the  highest  sum- 
mit 
I  pluck'd  a  daisy,  I  gave  it  you. 

It  told  of  England  then  to  me, 
And  now  it  tells  of  Italy. 

O  love,  we  two  shall  go  no  longer 
To  lands  of  summer  across  the  sea ; 

So  dear  a  life  your  arms  enfold 
Whose  crying  is  a  cry  for  gold : 

Yet  here  to-night  in  this  dark  city, 
When  ill  and  weary,  alone  and  cold, 

I  found,  tho'  crush'd  to  hard  and  dry, 
This  nurseling  of  another  sky 

Still  in  the  little  book  you  lent  me, 
And  where  you  tenderly  laid  it  by ; 

And  I  forgot  the  clouded  Forth, 
The  gloom  that  saddens  Heaven  and 
Earth 
The  bitter  east,  the  misty  summer 
And  gray  metropolis  of  the  North. 

Perchance,  to  lull  the  throbs  of  pain, 
Perchance,  to  charm  a  vacant  brain, 
Perchance,  to  dream  you  still  beside 
me, 
My  fancy  fled  to  the  South  again. 


TO  THE  REV.  F.  D.  MAURICE. 

Come,  when  no  graver  cares  employ, 
God-father,  come  and  see  your  boy: 

Your  presence  will  be  sun  in  winter. 
Making  the  little  one  leap  for  joy. 

For,  being  of  that  honest  few, 
Who  give  the  Fiend  himself  his  due. 
Should     eighty     thousand     college 
councils 
Thunder  "  Anathema,"  friend,  at  you 

Should    all   our    churchmen   foam   in 

spite 
At  YOU,  so    ireful  of  the  right, 


Yet  one  lay-hearth  would  give  you 
welcome 
(Take   it   and   come)    to   the    Isle   of 
Wight; 

Where,  far  from  noise  and  smoke  of 

town 
I  watch  the  twilight  faV.ing  brown 

All  round  a  careless-order'd  garden 
Close  to  the  ridge  of  a  noble  down. 

You  '11  have  no  scandal  while  you  dine, 
But  honest  talk  and  wholesome  wine, 

And  oi\ly  hear  the  magpie  gossip 
Garrulous  under  a  roof  of  pine  : 

For  groves  of  pine  on  either  hand. 
To  break  the  blast  of  winter,  stand  ; 
And  further  on,  the  hoary  Channel 
Tumbles  a  breaker  on  chalk  and  sand; 

Where,  if  below  the  milky  steep 
Some  ship  of  battle  slowly  creep. 
And   on   thro'   zones  of    light  and 
shadow 
Glimmer  away  to  the  lonely  deep, 

Wc  might  discuss  the  Northern  sin 
Which  made  a  selfish  war  begin  ; 
Dispute    the    claims,    arrange    the 
chances ; 
Emperor,  Ottoman,  which  shall  win: 

Or  whether  war's  avenging  rod 
Shall  lash  all  Europe  into  blood; 
Till  you  should  turn  to  dearer  mat- 
ters, 
Dear  to  the  man  that  is  dear  to  God ; 

How  best  to  help  the  slender  store, 
How  mend  the  dwellings,  of  the  poor; 

How  gain  in  life,  as  life  advances. 
Valor  and  charity  more  and  more. 

Come,  Maurice,  come  :  the  lawn  as  yet 
Is  hoar  with  rime,  or  spongy-wet ; 
But  then  the  wreath  of  March  has 
blossom'd, 
Crocus,  anemone,  violet. 

Or  later,  pay  one  visit  here, 

For  those  are  few  we  hold  as  dear; 

Nor  pay  but  one,  but  come  for  many, 
Many  and  many  a  happy  year. 
January,  1854. 


252 


THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE. 


WILL. 


O  WELL  for  him  whose  will  is  strong ! 

He  suffers,  but  he  will  not  suffer  long; 

He  suffers,  but  he  cannot  suffer  wrong  : 

For  him  nor  moves  the  loud  world's 
random  mock, 

Nor  all  Calamity's  hugest  waves  con- 
found, 

Who  seems  a  promontory  of  rock. 

That,  compass'd  round  with  turbulent 
sound. 

In  middle  ocean  meets  the  surging 
shock. 

Tempest-buffeted,  citadel-crown'd. 

2. 

But  ill  for  him  who,  bettering  not  with 

time. 
Corrupts  the   strength  of   heaven-de- 
scended Will, 
And   ever  weaker  grows  thro 

crime, 

Or  seeming-genial  venial  fault. 
Recurring  and  suggesting  still  ' 
He  seems  as  one  whose  footsteps 
Toiling  in  immeasurable  sand, 
And  o'er  a  wear}^  sultry  land. 
Far  beneath  a  blazing  vault, 
Sown  in  a  wrinkle  of  the  monstrous 

hill. 
The  city  sparkles  like  a  grain  of  salt. 


acted 


THE  CHARGE  OF  THE   LIGHT 
BRIGADE. 


Half  a  league,  half  a  league, 
Half  a  league  onward. 
All  in  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 
"  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  !  _ 
*'  Charge  for  the  guns  !  "  he  said 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 


«*  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  !  '* 
Was  there  a  man  dismay'd .'' 
Not  tho'  the  soldier  knew 


Some  one  had  blunder'd; 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply, 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why. 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die, 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 


Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them. 
Cannon  in  front  of  them 

Voiley'd  and  thunder'd  ; 
Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell. 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well, 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  Hell 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 


Flash'd  all  their  sabres  bare, 
Flash'd  as  they  turn'd  in  air, 
Sabring  the  gunners  there. 
Charging  an  army,  while 

All  the  world  wonder'd  : 
Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke, 
Right  thro'  the  line  they  broke 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reel'd  from  the  sabre-stroke 

Shatter'd  and  sunder'd. 
Then  they  rode  back,  but  not 
Not  the  six  hundred. 

5- 
Cannon  to  right  of  them 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  behind  them 

Voiley'd  and  thunder'd ; 
Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
While  horse  and  hero  fell, 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  thro' the  jaws  of 'Death 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them, 

Left  of  six  hundred. 


When  can  their  glory  fade  ? 
O  the  wild  charge  they  made  I 

All  the  world  wonder'd. 
Honor  the  charge  they  made  I 
Honor  the  Light  Brigade, 
Noble  six  hundred! 


IDYLS   OF   THE   KING. 


Flos  Regum  Arthurus." 

Joseph  of  Exeter. 


DEDICATION. 

These  to  His  Memory — since  he  held 
them  dear, 

Perchance    as    finding    there    uncon- 
sciously 

Some  image  of  himself — I  dedicate, 

I  dedicate,  I  consecrate  with  tears — 

These  Idyls. 

And  indeed  He  seems  to  me 

Scarce  other  than  my  own  ideal  knight, 

'•  Who  reverenced  his  conscience  as  his 
king  ; 

Whose  glory  was,  redressmg  human 
wrong ; 

Who  spake  no  slander,  no,  nor  Jisten'd 
to  it; 

Who  loved  one  only  and  who  clave  to 
her — " 

Her — over   all  whose  realms  to  their 
last  isle. 

Commingled   with   the   gloom   of  im- 
minent war. 

The  shadow  of  His  loss  moved  like 
eclipse, 

Darkening  the  world.     We  have  lost 
him  :  he  is  gone  : 

We  know  him  now:  all  narrow  jeal- 
ousies 

Are   silent :  and  we   see    him   as   he 
moved, 

How  modest,  kindly,  all-accomplish'd, 
wise. 

With  what  sublime  repression  of  him- 
self. 

And  in  what  limits,  and  how  tenderly ; 

Not  swaying  to  this  faction  or  to  that  ; 

Not  making  his  high  place  the  lawless 
perch 

Of    wing'd  ambitions,  nor  a  vantage- 
ground 

!For  pleasure  :  but  thro'  all  this  tract 
of  years 


Wearing  the  white  flower  of  a  blame- 

,  less  life, 
Before  a  thousand  peering  littlenesses, 
In  that  fierce  light  which  beats  upon  a 

throne, 
And  blackens  every  blot;  for  where  is 

he, 
Who  dares  foreshadow  for  an  only  son 
A  lovelier  life,  a  more  unstain'd,  than 

his.? 
Or  how  should  Eng^nd  dreaming  of 

his  sons 
Hope  more  for  these   than  some  in- 
heritance 
Of  such  a  life,  a  heart,  a  mind  as  thine, 
Thou  noble  Father  of  her  Kings  to  be, 
Laborious  for  her    people    and    her 

poor —  [day — 

Voice  in  the  rich  dawn  of  an  ampler 
Far-sighted   summoner   of    War   and 

Waste 
To  fruitful  strifes    and    rivalries    of 

peace — 
Sweet  nature  gilded  by  the  gracious 

gleam 
Of  letters,  dear  to  Science,  dear  to  Art, 
Dear  to  thy  land  and  ours,  a  Prince 

indeed. 
Beyond  all  titles,  and    a    household 

name, 
Hereafter,  thro'  all  times,  Albert  the 

Good. 

Break  not,  O  woman's-heart,  but  still 

endure ; 
Break   not,  for  thou    art   Royal,   but 

endure, 
Remembering  all  the  beauty  of  that  star 
Which  shone   so   close   beside   Thee, 

that  ye  made 
One  light  together,  but  has  past  and 

left 
The  Crown  of  lonely  splendor. 


254 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


May  all  love, 
His  love,  unseen  but  felt,  o'ershadow 

Thee, 
The  love  of  all  Thy  sons  encompass 

Thee, 
The  love  of  all  Thy  daughters  cherish 

Thee, 
The   love  of  all  Thy  people  comfort 

Thee, 
Till  God's  love  set  Thee  at  his  side 

again  1 


ENID. 

The  brave  Geraint,  a  knight  of  Arthur's 

court, 
A  tributary  prince  of  Devon,  one 
Of  that  great    ofder    of    the    Table 

Round, 
Had  wedded  Enid,  Yniol's  only  child. 
And  loved  her,  as  he  loved  the  light  of 

Heaven. 
And  as  the  light  of  Heaven  varies, 

now 
At  sunrise,  now  at  sunset,  now  by  night 
With   moon   and  trembling   stars,   so 

loved  Geriant 
To  make  her  beauty  vary  day  by  day. 
In  crimsons  and  in  purples  and  in  gems. 
And  Enid,  but  to  plea'^n  her  husband's 

eye. 
Who  first  had  found  and  loved  her  in 

a  state 
Of  broken  fortunes,  daily  fronted  him 
In  some  fresh  splendor  ;  and  the  Queen 

herself, 
Grateful  to  Prince  Geraint  for  service 

done, 
Loved  her,  and  often  with    her  own 

white  hands 
Array'd  and  deck'd  her,  as  the  love- 
liest, 
Next  after    her   own   self,  in  all   the 

court. 
A.nd  Enid  loved  the  Queen,  and  with 

true  heart 
Adored  her,  as  the  stateliest  and  the 

best 
'  nd  loveliest  of  all  women  upon  earth. 


And  seeing   them   so   tender   and   so 

close. 
Long   in  their  common  love   rejoiced 

Geraint, 
But   when   a   rumor    rose    about    the 

Queen, 
Touching  her  guilty  love  for  Lancelot, 
Though  yet  there  lived  no  proof,  nor 

yet  was  heard 
The   world's   loud   whisper    breaking 

into  storm. 
Not  less  Geraint  believed  it ;  and  there 

fell 
A   horror  on  him,  lest  his  gentle  wife, 
Thro'  that  great  tenderness  to  Guine- 
vere, 
Had  suffered  or  should  suffer  anyjaint 
In   nature :    wherefore    going   to''~the 

king, 
He  made  this  pretext,  that  his  prince- 
dom lay 
Close  on  the  borders  of  a  territory, 
Wherein  were  bandit  earls,  and  caitiff 

knights, 
Assassins,  and  all  flyers  from  the  hand 
Of  justice,  and  whatever  loathes  a  law  ; 
And   therefore,  till   the   king   himself 

should  please 
To  cleanse  this  common  sewer  of  all 

his  realm, 
He  craved  a  fair  permission  to  depart, 
And   there   defend  his  marches;  and 

the  king 
Mused  for  a  little  on  his  plea,  but,  last. 
Allowing  it,  the  prince  and  Enid  rode, 
And  fifty  knights  rode  with  them,  to  the 

shores 
Of  Severn,  and  they  past  to  their  own 

land; 
Where,  thinking,  that  if  ever  yet  was 

wife 
True  to  her  lord,  mine  shall  be  so  to 

me, 
He  compassed  her  with  sweet  observ- 
ances 
And  worship,  never  leaving  her,  and 

grew 
Forgetful  of  his  promise  to  the  king, 
Forgetful  of  the  falcon  and  the  hunt, 
Forgetful  of  the  tilt  and  tournament, 
Forgetful  of  his  glory  and  his  name, 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING, 


255 


Forgetful  of  his  princedom  and  its 
cares. 

And  this  forgetfulness  was  hateful  to 
her, 

And  by  and  by  the  people,  when  they 
met, 

In  twos  and  threes,  or  fuller  com- 
panies, 

Began  to  scoff  and  jeer  and  babble  of 
him 

As  of  a  prince  whose  manhood  was  all 

And  molten  down  in  niere  uxorious- 
ness. 

And  this  she  gather'dirom  the  people's 
eyes :  [head. 

This  too  the  women  who  attired  her 

To  please  her,  dwelling  on  his  bound- 
less love. 

Told  Enid,  and  they  saddened  her  the 
more  : 

And  day  by  day  she  thought  to  tell 
.  Geraint, 

But  could  not  out  of  bashful  delicacy; 

While  he  that  watch'd  her  sadden, 
was  the  more 

Suspicious  that  her  nature  had  a  taint. 

At  last,  it  chanced  on   a  summer 

morn 
(They  sleeping  each  by  other)  the  new 

sun 
Beat   through    the  blindless  casement 

of  the  room. 
And  heated  the  strong  warrior  in  his 

dreams ; 
"Who,  moving,  cast  the  coverlet  aside. 
And  bared  the  knotted  column  of   his 

throat, 
The    massive    square    of    his  heroic 

breast. 
And    arms    on  which    the    standing 

muscle  sloped. 
As  slopes  a  wild  brook  o'er  a   little 

stone, 
Running    too    vehemently     to    break 

upon  it. 
And  Enid   woke   and   sat   beside   the 

couch. 
Admiring  him,  and  thought  within  her- 
self, 


Was  ever  man  so  grandly  made  as 

her*^ 
Then,  like  a  shadow,  past  the  people's 

talk 
And  accusation  of  uxoriousness 
Across   her  mind,  and    bowing  over 

him. 
Low  to  her  own  heart  piteously,  she 

said  : 

"  O  noble    breast  and  all-puissant 
.'      arms, 
Am  I  the  cause,  I  the  poor  cause  that 

men 
Reproach  you,  saying  all  your  force  is 

gone  } 
I  am  the  cause  because   I  dare  not 

speak 
And  tell  him  what  I  think  and  wha'. 

they  say. 
And  yet  I  hate  that  he  should  linger 

here  ; 
I   cannot  love   my  lord  and  not  his 

name. 
Far  liever  had  I  gird  his  harness  on 

him,  [by, 

And  ride  with  him  to  battle  and  stand 
And  watch  his   mightful  hand  striking 

great  blows 
At  caitiffs  and    at  wrongers    of    the 

world. 
Far  better  were   I   laid   in  the   dark 

earth. 
Not  hearing  any  more  his  noble  voice, 
Not  to  be  folded  more  in  these  dear 

arms, 
And  darken'd  from  the  high  light  in 

his  eyes, 
Than  that  my  lord  through  me  should 

suffer  shame. 
Am  I  so  bold,  and  could  I  so  stand  by, 
And  see  my  dear  lord  wounded  in  the 

strife. 
Or  may  be   pierced   to   death  before 

mine  eyes. 
And  yet  not  dare  to  tell  him  what  I 

think, 
And  how  men  slur  him,  saying  all  his 

force 
Is  melted  into  mere  effeminacy  ? 
O  m^e,  I  fear  that  I  am  no  true  wife.*' 


256 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KIISTG. 


Half  inwardly,  half  audibly  she  spoke, 
And  the  strong  passion  in  her  made 

her  weep 
True  tears  upon  his  broad  and  naked 

breast, 
And  these   awoke  him,  and  by  great 

mischance 
He  heard  but  fragments  of   her  later 

words, 
And  that  she  fear'd  she  was  not  a  true 

wife. 
And  then  he  thought,  "  In  spite  of  all 

my  care, 
For  all  my  pains,  poor  man,  for  all  my 

pains. 
She  is  not  faithful  to  me,  and  I  sec  her 
Weeping    for    some    gay    knight    in 

Arthur's  hall." 
Then  tho'  he  loved  and  reverenced  her 

too  much 
To  dream  she  could  be  of  foul  act, 
Right  thro'  his  manful  breast  darted 

the  pang 
That  makes  a  man  in  the  sweet  face  of 

her 
Whom    he    loves    most,    lonely    and 

miserable. 
At  this  he  hurl'd  his  huge  limbs  out  of 

bed. 
And  shook   his  drowsy  squire  awake 

and  cried, 
"  My  charger  and  her  palfrey,"  then  to 

her, 
**  I   will   ride  forth   into    the    wilder- 
ness; 
For  tho'  it  seems  my  spurs  are   yet  to 

win, 
I  have  not  fall'n  so  low  as  some  would 

wish. 
And    you,   put    on    your    worst    and 

meanest  dress 
And  ride  with  me."     And  Enid  ask'd, 

amazed, 
"If    Enid    errs,   let    Enid    learn   her 

fault." 
But  he,  "  I  charge  you,  ask  not,  but 

obey." 
Then  she  bethought  her  of  a  faded 

silk, 
A  faded  mantle  ^nd  a  faded  veil, 
And  moving  toward  a  cedarn  cabinet, 


Wherein  she  kept  them  folded  rev- 
erently 

With  sprigs  of  summer  laid  between 
the  folds, 

She  took  them,  and  array'd  herself 
therein. 

Remembering  when  first  he  came  on 
her 

Drest  in  that  dress,  and  how  he  loved 
her  in  it, 

And  all  her  foolish  fears  about  the 
dress, 

And  all  his  journey  to  her,  as  him- 
self 

Had  told  her,  and  their  coming  to  the 
court. 

For  Arthur  on  the  Whitsuntide  be- 
fore 
Held  court  at  old  Caerleon  upon  Usk. 
There   on  a   day,    he   sitting   high  in 

hall. 
Before  him  came  a  forester  of  Dean, 
Wet  from  the  woods,  with  notice  of  a 

hart 
Taller    than    all    his    fellows,    milky- 
white, 
First  seen  that  day :  these  things  he 

told  the  king. 
Then  the  good  king  gave  order  to  let 

blow 
His  horns  for  hunting  on  the  morrow 

morn. 
And  when  the  Queen  petition'd  for  his 

leave 
To  see  the  hunt,  allow'd  it  easily. 
So  with  the  morning  all  the  court  were 

gone. 
But  Guinevere  lay  late  into  the  morn, 
Lost  in  sweet  dreams,  and  dreaming  of 

her  Love 
For   Lancelot,    and   forgetful    of    the 

hunt ;  [her, 

But  rose  at  last,  a  single  maiden  with 
Took    horse,     and   forded    Usk,    and 

gain'd  the  wood  ; 
There,  on  a  little  knoll  beside  it,  stay'd 
Waiting    to    hear    the    hounds;    but 

heard  instead 
A  sudden  sound  of  hoofs,  for  Prince 

Geraint, 


IDYLS  OF  TFfE  KING. 


257 


Late   also,   wearing    neither    hunting 

dress 
Nor     weapon,     save    a    golden-hilted 

brand, 
Came  quickly  flashing  diro'  the  shallow 

ford 
Behind  them,  and  so  gallop'd  up   the 

knoll. 
A  purple  scarf,  at  either   end  whereof 
There   swung  an   apple  of  the  purest 

gold, 
Sway'd  round  about  him,  as  he  gallop'd 

up  [fly 

To  join  them,  glancing  like  a  dragon- 
In  summer  suit  and  silks  of  holiday. 
Low  bow'd  the    tributary  Prince,  and 

she. 
Sweetly  and  stately,  and  with  all  grace 
Of  womanhood   and    queenhood,   an- 

swer'd  him  . 
"  Late,   late,    Sir   Prince,"    she    said, 

"  later  than  we  !  " 
"  Yea,    noble    Queen,"  he    answer'd, 

"and  so  late 
That  I  but  come  like  you  to  see  the 

hunt. 
Not  join  it."      "  Therefore  wait  with 

me,"  she  said ; 
"  For  on  this  little   knoll,  if  anywhere. 
There   is   good   chance   that  we  shall 

hear  the  hounds ; 
Here  often  they  break  covert  at  our 

feet." 

And  while  they  listen'd  for  the  dis- 
tant hunt, 

And  chiefly  for  the  baying  of  Cavall, 

King  Arthur's  hound  of  deepest 
mouth,  there  rode 

Full  slowly  by  a  knight,  lady,  and 
dwarf ; 

Whereof  the  dwarf  lagg'd  latest,  and 
the  knight 

Had  visor  up,  and  show'd  a  youthful 
face. 

Imperious,  and  of  haughtiest  linea- 
ments. 

And  Guinevere,  not  mindful  of  Tiis 
face 

In  the  king's  hall,  desired  his  name, 
and  sent 


Her    maiden    to    demand   it    of  the 

dwarf ; 
Who  being  vicious,  old,  and  irritable. 
And  doubling  all  his  master's  vice  of 

pride. 
Made  answer  sharply  that  she  should 

not  know. 
"  Then  will  I  ask  it  of   himself,"  she 

said. 
"Nay,  by  my   faith,  thou  shalt  not," 

cried  the  dwarf; 
"  Thou  art  not  worthy  ev'n  to  speak  of 

him  ; " 
And  when  she  put  her  horse  toward 

the  knight, 
Struck  at  her  with  KiS  whip,  anid  she 

return'd 
Indignant   to    the   Queen  j    at    which 

Geraint 
Exclaiming,   "  Surely  I  will  learn  the 

name," 
Made  sharply  to  the  dwarf,  and  ask'd 

it  of  him, 
Who  answer'd   as  before ;  and  when 

the  Prince 
Had  put  his  horse  in  motion  toward 

the  knight, 
Struck  at  him  with  his  whip,  and  cut 

his  cheek. 
The  Prince's  blood  spirted  upon  the 

scarf. 
Dyeing  it ;  and  his  quick,  instinctive 

hand 
Caught  at  the  hilt,  as  to  abolish  him; 
But  he,  from  his  exceeding  manfulness 
And  pure  nobility  of  temperament. 
Wroth  to  be  wroth  at  such  a  worm, 

refrain'd 
From  ev'n  a  word,  and  so  returning, 

said: 

"  I   will    avenge   this  insult,    noble 

Queen, 
Done  in  your  maiden's  person  to  vour- 

selfs 
And  I  will  track  this  vermin  to  their 

earths  : 
For   tho'   I   ride    unarm'd,   I   do   not 

doubt 
To  find,  at  some  place  I  shall  come  at, 

arms 


258 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


On  loan,  or  else  for  pledge ;  and,  be 
ing  found, 

Then  will  I  fight  him,  and  will  break 
his  pride, 

And  on  the  third  day  will  again  be 
here 

So  that  I  be  not  fall'n  in  fight.  Fare- 
well." 

"  Farewell,  fair    Prince,"   answer'd 

the  stately  Queen. 
"  Be  prosperous  in  this  journey,  as  in 

all  ; 
And  may  you  light  on  all  things  that 

you  love. 
And  live  to  wed  with   her  whom  first 

you  love : 
But  ere  you  wed  with  any,  bring  your 

bride, 
And  I,  were   she   the  daughter  of   a 

king. 
Yea,  tho'  she  were  a  beggar  from  the 

hedge, 
Will  clothe  her  for  her  bridals  like  the 

sun." 

And  Prince  Geraint,  now  thinking 
that  he  heard 
The  noble  hart  at  bay,  now  the  far 

horn, 
A  little  vext  at  losing  of  the  hunt, 
A  little  at  the  vile  occasion,  rode. 
By  ups  and  downs,  thro'  many  a  grassy 

glade 
And  valley,  with  fixt  eye,  following  the 

three. 
At  last  they  issued  from  the  world  of 

wood, 
And   climb'd    upon  a  fair  and  even 

ridge. 
And  showed   themselves  against  the 

sky,  and  sank. 
And  thither  came  Geraint,  and  under- 
neath 
Beheld  the  long  street  of  a  little  town 
In  a  long  valley,  on  one  side  of  which. 
White  from  the  mason's  hand,  a  for- 
tress rose  : 
And  on  one  side  a  castle  in  decay, 
Beyond  a  bridge  that   spann'd  a  dry 
ravine  ; 


And  out   of  town  and  valley  came  a 

noise 
As  of  a  broad  brook  o'er  a  shingly  bed 
Brawling,  or  like  a  clamor  of  the  rooks 
At   distance,  ere   they   settle   for  the 

night. 

And  onward  to  the  fortress  rode  the 

three. 
And  enter'd,  and  were  lost  behind  the 

walls. 
"  So,"  thought  Geraint,  "I  havetrack'd 

him  to  his  earth." 
And    down    the    long    street,    riding 

wearily. 
Found   every   hostel   fuH,   and   every 

where 
Was  hammer  laid  to  hoof,  and  the  hot 

hiss 
And  bustling  whistle  of  the  youth  who 

scour'd 
His  master's  armor  :  and  of  such  a  one 
He  ask'd,  "  What  means  the  tumult  in 

the  town  ? " 
Who  told   him,  scouring  still,   "The 

sparrow-hawk!  " 
Then  riding  close  behind  an  ancient 

churl. 
Who,  smitten    by    the   dusty   sloping 

beam,  [corn, 

Went  sweating   underneath  a  sack  of 
Ask'd  yet  once  more  what  meant  the 

hubbub  here  "i 
Who    answer'd    gruffly,    "Ugh!    the 

sparrow-hawk." 
Then,  riding  further  past  an  armorer's, 
Who,   with   back    turn'd,   and   bow'd 

above  his  work. 
Sat  riveting  a  helmet  on  his  knee. 
He  put  the  selfsame  query,  but  the  man 
Not  turning  round,  nor  looking  at  him, 

said  : 
"  Friend,  he  that  labors  for  the  spar- 
row-hawk 
Has  little  time  for  idle  questioners." 
Whereat  Geraint  flash'd   into  sudden 

spleen  : 
"  A  thousand  pips  eat  up  your  spawrow 

hawk! 
Tits,  wrens,  and  all   wing'd  nothings 

peck  him  dead ! 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


259 


ye   think   the   rustic   cackle   of    your 

bourg 
The  murmur  of  the  world  !    What  is  it 

to  me? 
O  wretched  set  of  sparrows,  one  and 

all, 
Who  pipe  of  nothing  but  of  sparrow- 
hawks  1 
Speak,   if  you   be   not   like   the   rest, 

hawk-mad. 
Where  can  I  get  me  harborage  for  the 

night  ? 
And  arms,    arms,    arms    to   fight   my 

enemy  ?    Speak  !  " 
At  this  the  armorer  turning  all  amazed 
And  seeing  one  so  gay  in  purple  silks, 
Came  forward  with  the  helmet  yet  in 

band 
And  answer'd,  "  Pardon  me,  O  stranger 

knight ; 
We   hold  a  tourney  here    to-morrow 

mom,  [work. 

And  there  is  scantly  time  for  half  the 
Arms  ?     truth  I    I   know  not ;    all   are 

wanted  here. 
Harborage  ?  truth,  good  truth,  I  know 

not,  save, 
It  may  be,  at  Earl   Yniol's,  o'er  the 

bridge 
Yonder."     He    poke  and  fell  to  work 

again. 

Then  rode  Geraint,  a  little  spleenful 
yet. 

Across  the  bridge  that  spann'd  the  dry 
ravine. 

There  musing  sat  the  hoary-headed 
Earl, 

(His  dress  a  suit  of  fray'd  magnifi- 
cence. 

Once  fit  for  feasts  of  ceremony)  and 
said  : 

"Whither,  fair  son.^"  to  whom  Ge- 
raint replied, 

"  O  friend,  I  seek  a  harborage  for  the 
night." 

Then  Yniol,  "  Enter  therefore  and  par- 
take 

The  slender  entertainment  of  a  house 

Once  rich,  now  poor,  but  ever  open- 
door'd" 


"Thanks,  venerable  friend,"  replied 
Geraint : 

"  So  that  you  do  not  serve  me  sparrow- 
hawks 

For  supper,  I  will  enter,  I  will  eat 

With  all  the  passion  of  a  twelve  hours* 
fast." 

Then  sigh'd  and  smiled  the  hoary- 
headed  Earl, 

And  answer'd,  "Graver  cause  than 
yours  is  mine 

To  curse  this  hedgerow  thief,  the  spar- 
row-hawk : 

But  in,  go  in  ;  for,  save  yourself  desire 
it, 

We  will  not  touch  upon  him  ev'n  in 
jest." 

Then   rode   Geraint  into  the  castle 

court, 
His  charger  trampling  many  a  prickly 

star 
Of    sprouted    thistle    on   the  broken 

stones. 
He  look'd  and  saw   that  all  was  ruin- 
ous. 
Here  stood  a  shatter'd  archway  plumed 

with  fern; 
And  here  had  fall'n  a  great  part  of  a 

tower. 
Whole,  like  a  crag  that  tumbles  from 

the  cliff. 
And  like  a  crag  was  gay  with  wilding 

flowers : 
And  high  above  a  piece  of  turret  stair, 
Worn  by  the  feet  tha^  now  were  silent, 

wound 
Bare   to  the  sun,  and  monstrous  ivy- 
stems 
Claspt  the  gray  walls  with  hairy- fibred 

arms. 
And  suck'd  the  joining  of  the  stones, 

and  look'd 
A  knot,  beneath,   of  snakes,  aloft,   a 

grove 

And  while   he  waited  in  the  castle 

court. 
The  voice   of  Enid,  Yniol's   daughter, 

rang 
Clear  thro'  the  open  casement  «f  the 

Hall, 


250 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


Singing :  and  as  the  sweet  voice  of  a 

bird, 
Heard  by  the  lander  in  a  lonely  isle, 
Moves  him  to  think  what  kind  of  bird 

it  is 
That    sings    so    delicately  clear,  and 

make 
Conjecture  of  the  plumage   and    the 

form; 
So  the    sweet  voice  of  Enid  moved 

Geraint ; 
And  made  him  like  a  man  abroad  at 

morn 
When  first  the  liquid  note  beloved  of 

men 
Comes  flying  over  many  a  windy  vave 
To  Britain,  and  in  April  suddenly 
Breaks  from  a  coppice  gemm'd   with 

green  and  red, 
And  he   suspends   his   converse   with 

a  friend, 
Or  it  may  be  the  labor  of  his  hands, 
To  think  or  say,  '  *  there  is  the  nightin- 
gale ;  " 
So  fared  it  with  Geraint,  who  thought 

and  said, 
*'  Here,   by   God's  grace,  is  the   one 

voice  for  me." 

It  chanced  the  song  that  Enid   sang 
was  one 
Of  Fortune  and  her  wheel,  and  Enid 
sang: 

"  Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel  and 

lower  the  proud  ; 
Turn   thy   wild   wheel  thro'  sunshine, 

storm,  and  cloud ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thee   we  neither  love 

nor  hate. 

"  Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel  with 

smile  or  frown  ; 
With  that  wild  wheel  we  go  not  up  or 

down ; 
Our  hoard  is  little,  but  our  hearts  are 

great. 

"  Smile   and   we  smile,  the  lords  of 

many  lands : 
Frown  and  we  smile,  the  lords  of  our 

own  hands  ; 
For  man  is  man  and  master  of  his  fate. 


"  Turn,  turn  thy  wheel  above  the 

staring  crowd ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thou  are  shadows  in  the 

cloud ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love 

nor  hate." 

"  Hark,  by  the  bird's  song  you  may 
learn  the  nest," 

Said  Yniol ;  "  Enter  quickly."  Enter- 
ing then, 

Right  o'er  a  mount  of  newly-fallen 
stones. 

The  dusty  -  rafter'd  many-cobweb'd 
Hali, 

He  found  an  ancient  dame  in  dim  bro- 
cade; 

And  near  her,  like  a  blossom  vermeil - 
white. 

That  lightly  breaks  a  faded  flower- 
sheath, 

Moved  the  fair  Enid,  all  in  faded  silk. 

Her  daughter.  In  a  moment  thought 
Geraint, 

"  Here  by  God's  rood  is  the  one  tnaid 
for  me." 

But  none  spake  word  except  the  hoary 
Earl : 

'*  Enid,  the  good  knight's  horse  stands 
in  the  court ; 

Take  him  to  stall,  and  give  him  corn, 
and  then 

Go  to  the  town  and  buy  us  flesh  and 
wine : 

And  we  will  make  us  merry  as  we  may. 

Our  hoard  is  little,  but  our  hearts  are 
great." 

He  spake  :  the  Prince,  as  Enid  past 

him  fain 
To  follow,  strode  a  stride,  but  Yniol 

caught 
His   purple  scarf,  and  held,  and  said 

"  Forbear ! 
Rest  !  the  good  house,  tho'  ruin'd,  O 

my  Son, 
Endures   not    that   her    guest   should 

serve  himself." 
And   reverencing   the   custom   of    the 

house 
Geraint,  from  utter  courtesy,  forbore. 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


261 


So    Enid  took  his   charger  to   the 

stall  ; 
And  after   went  her  way  across   the 

bridge, 
And  reach'd  the  town,  and  while  the 

Prince  and  EarL 
Yet  spoke  together,  came  again  with 

one, 
A  youth,  that  following  with  a  costrel 

bore 
The  means   of  goodly  welcome,  flesh 

and  wine. 
A.nd    Enid   brought    sweet    cakes   to 

make  them  cheer, 
And  in    her  veil   enfolded,    manchet 

bread. 
And  then,  because  their  hall  must  also 

serve 
For    kitchen,    boil'd    the    flesh,    and 

spread  the  board, 
And  stood  behind,  and  waited  on  the 

three.  [able. 

And  seeing  her  so  sweet  and  service- 
Geraint  had  longing  in  him  evermore 
To  stoop  and   kiss   the   tender  little 

thumb. 
That  crost  the  trencher  as  she  laid  it 

down : 
But  after  all  had  eaten,  then  Geraint, 
For  now  the  wine  made  summer  in  his 

veins. 
Let  his  eye  rove  in  following,  or  rest 
On  Enid  at  her  lowly  handmaid-work. 
Now  here,  now  there,  about  the  dusky 

hall: 
Then  suddenly  addrest  the  hoary  Earl. 

"  Fair   Host  and  Earl,  I  pray  your 

courtesy : 
This  sparrow-hawk,  what  is  he,  tell  me 

of  him. 
His  name  t  but  no,  good  faith,  I  will 

not  have  it : 
For  if  he  be  the  knight  whom  late  I 

saw 
Ride  into  that  new  fortress  by  your 

town, 
White  from  the  mason's  hand,  then 

have  I  sworn 
From  his   own  lips  to  have  it — I  am 

Geraint 


Of  Devon — for  this  morning  when  the 

Queen 
Sent  her  own  maiden  to  demand  the 

name, 
His    dwarf,    a    vicious    under-shapen 

thing, 
Struck  at  her  with  his  whip,  and  she 

return'd 
Indignant  to  the  Queen;  and  then  I 

swore 
That  I  would  track  this  caitiff  to  his 

hold. 
And  fight  aiid  break  his  pride,  and  have 

it  of  him.  [find 

And  all  unarm'd  I  rode,  and  thought  to 
Arms  in  your  town,  where  all  the  men 

are  mad  ; 
They  take  the  rustic  murmur  of  their 

bourg 
For  the  great  wave  that  echoes  round 

the  world ; 
They  would  not  hear  me  speak  :  but  if 

you  know 
Where  I  can  light  on  arms,  or  if  your- 
self 
Should  have  them,  tell  me,  seeing  I  have 

sworn 
That  I  will  break  his  pride  and  learn 

his  name. 
Avenging  this  great  insist    done  the 

Queen." 

Then  cried  Earl  Yniol  :  "  Art  thou 

he  indeed, 
Geraint,   a  name    far-sounded  among 

men 
For  nobl&  deeds.?  and  truly  I,  when 

first 
I  saw  you  moving  by  me  on  the  bridge, 
Felt  you  were  somewhat,  yea  and  by 

your  state 
And  presence  might  have  guess'd  you 

one  of  those 
That  eat  in  Arthur's  hall  at  Camelot. 
Nor  speak  I  now  from  foolish  flattery ; 
For   this  dear  child  hath  often  heard 

me  praise 
Your  feats  of  arms,  and  often  when  I 

paused 
Hath   ask'd  again,  and  ever  loved  to 

hear  j 


2(j2 


fDVLS  OF  THE  KWG. 


So  grateful  is  the  noise  of  noble  deeds 
To   noble  hearts  who  see  but  acts  of 
wrong  : 

0  rtever  yet  had  woman  such  a  pair 
Of  suitors   as   this   maiden ;   first  Li- 

mours, 
A  creature  wholly  given  to  brawls  and 

wine, 
Drunk  even  when  he  woo'd  ;  and  be  he 

dead 

1  know  not,  but  he  passed  to  the  wild 

land. 

The  second  was  your  foe,  the  sparrow- 
hawk, 

My  curse,  my  nephew, — I  will  not  let 
his  name 

Slip  from  my  lips  if  I  can  help  it, — he, 

When  I  that  knew  him  fierce  and  tur- 
bulent 

Refused  her  to  him,  then  his  pride 
awoke ; 

And  since  the  proud  man  often  is  the 
mean, 

He  sowed  a  slander  in  the  common  ear, 

Affirming  that  his  father  left  him  gold, 

And  in  my  charge,  which  was  not  ren- 
der'd  to  him ; 

Bribed  with  large  promises  the  men 
who  served 

About  my  person,  the  more  easily 

Because  my  means  were  somewhat 
broken  into 

Thro'  open  doors  and  hospitality  ; 

Raised  my  own  town  against  me  in  the 
night 

Before  my  Enid's  birthday,  sack'd  my 
house ; 

From  mine  own  earldom  foully  ousted 
me  ; 

Built  that  new  fort  to  overawe  my 
friends, 

For  truly  there  are  those  who  love  me 
yet; 

And  keeps  me  in  this  ruinous  castle 
here. 

Where  doubtless  he  would  put  me 
soon  to  death. 

But  that  his  pride  too  much  despises 
me: 

And  I  myself  sometimes  despise  my- 
self: 


For  I  have  let  men  be,  and  have  their 

way  ; 
And  much  too  gentle,  have  not  used 

my  power : 
Nor  know  I  whether  I  be  very  base 
Or  very  manful,  whether  very  wise 
Or  very  foolish  ;  only  this  I  know, 
That  whatsoever  evil  happen  to  me, 
I  seem,  to  suffer  nothing  heart  or  limb. 
But  can  endure  it  all  most  patiently." 

"  Well    said,    true    heart,"  replied 

Geraint,  "  but  arms  : 
That   if,  as  I   suppose,  your   nephew 

fights 
In  next  day's  tourney  I  may  break  his 

pride." 

And  Yniol  answer'd :  "  Arms,  in- 
deed, but  old 

And  rusty,  old  and  rusty,  Prince  Ge- 
raint, 

Are  mine,  and  therefore  at  your  ask- 
ing, yours. 

But  in  this  tournament  can  no  man 
tilt. 

Except  the  lady  he  loves  best  be  there. 

Two  forks  are  fixt  into  the  meadow 
ground, 

And  over  these  is  laid  a  silver  wand. 

And  over  that  is  placed  the  sparrow- 
hawk. 

The  prize  of  beauty  for  the  fairest 
there. 

And  this,  what  knight  soever  be  in 
field 

Lays  claim  to  for  the  lady  at  his  side. 

And  tilts  with  my  good  nephew  there- 
upon. 

Who  being  apt  at  arms  and  big  of 
bone 

Has  ever  won  it  for  the  lady  with  him. 

And  toppling  over  all  antagonism 

Has  earn'd  himself  the  name  of  spar, 
row-hawk. 

But  you,  that  have  no  lady,  cannot 
fight." 

To  whom   Geraint    with    eyes    all 
bright  replied, 
Leaning  a  little  toward  him,  *'  Youi 
leave  \ 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


263 


Let  me  lay  lance  in  rest,  O  noble  host, 
For  this  dear  child,  because  I  never 

saw, 
Tho'  having  seen  all  beauties  of  our 

time, 
Nor  can  see   elsewhere,  anything   so 

fair. 
And  if  I  fall  her  name  will  yet  remain 
Untarnish'd  as  before ;  but  if  I  live, 
So  aid  me  Heaven  when  at  mine  utter- 
most, 
As  I   will   make    her   truly  my  true 
wife." 

Then,  howsoever  patient,  Yniol's 
heart 

Danced  in  his  bosom,  seeing  better 
days, 

And  looking  round  he  saw  not  Enid 
there 

(Who  hearing  her  own  name  liad  slipt 
away), 

But  that  old  dame,  to  whom  full  ten- 
derly 

And  fondling  all  her  hand  in  his  he 
said, 

•'  Mother,  a  maiden  is  a  tender  thing, 

And  best  by  her  that  bore  her  under- 
stood. 

Go  thou  to  rest,  but  ere  thou  go  to 
rest 

Tell  her,  and  prove  her  "heart  toward 
the  Prince." 

So  spake  the  kindly-hearted   Earl, 

and  she 
With  frequent  smile  and  nod  depart- 
ing found. 
Half  disarray'd  as  to  her  rest,  the  girl ; 
Whom  first  she  kiss'd  on  either  cheek, 

and  then 
On    either    shining    shoulder    laid   a 

hand, 
And  kept  her  off  and  gazed  upon  her 

face, 
And  told  her  all  their  converse  in  the 

hall. 
Proving  her  heart ;  but  never  light  and 

shade 
Coursed   one   another  more  on  open 

ground 


Beneath  a  troubled  heaven,  than  red 

and  pale 
Across  the  face  of  Enid  hearing  her; 
Whilst  slowly  falling  as  a  scale  that 

falls. 
When  weight  is  added  only  grain  by- 
grain, 
Sanlc  her  sweet  head  upon  her  gentle 

breast ; 
Nor  did  she  lift  an  €ye  nor  speak  a 

word. 
Rapt  in  the  fear  and  in  the  wonder  of 

it; 
So  moving  Vithout  answer  to  her  rest 
She  found  no  rest,  and  ever  fail'd  to 

di^w 
The  quiet  night  into  her  blood,  but 

lay 
Contemplating  her  own  unworthiness; 
And  when  the  pale  and  bloodless  east 

began 
To  quicken  to  the  sun,  arose,    and 

raised 
Her   mother   too,  and   hand  in   hand 

they  moved 
Down  to  the  meadow  where  the  jousts 

were  held. 
And  waited  there  for  Yniol  and  Ge- 

raint. 

And  thither  came  the    twain,  and 

when  Geraint 
Beheld  her  first  in  field,  awaiting  him, 
He  felt,  were  she  the  prize  of  bodily 

force, 
Himself  beyond  the  rest  pushing  could 

move 
The  chair  of  Idris.     Yniol's  rusted 

arms 
Were  on  his  princely  person,  but  thro' 

these 
Princelike  his  bearing  shone ;  and  er- 
rant knights 
And  ladies  came,  and  by  and  by  the 

town 
Flow'd  in,  and  settling  circled  all  the 

lists. 
And  there  they  fixt  the  fork;  into  the 

ground, 
And  over   these  they  placer  a.  silvel 

wand. 


264 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


A.nd  over  that  a  golden  sparrow-hawk. 
Then   Yniol's  nephew,  after  trumpet 

blown, 
Spake  to  the  lady  with  him  and  pro- 

claim'd, 
"Advance  and  take  as  fairest  of  the 

fair, 
For  I  these  two  years  past  have  won 

it  for  thee, 
The  prize  of  beauty."     Loudly  spake 

the  Prince, 
"  Forbear :   there  is  a  worthier,"  and 

the  knight 
With  some  surprise  and  thrice  as  much 

disdain 
Turn'd,  and  beheld  the  four,  and  all 

his  face 
Glow'd  like  the  heart  of  a  great  fire  at 

Yule, 
So  burnt  he  was  with  passion,  crying 

out, 
*'  Do  battle  for  it  then,"  no  more ;  and 

thrice 
They  clash'd  together,  and  thrice  they 

brake  their  spears. 
Then    each,   dishorsed  and   drawing, 

lash'd  at  each 
So  often,  and  with  such  blows,  that  all 

the  crowd 
Wonder'd,  and  now  and  then  from  dis- 
tant walls 
There  came  a  clapping  as  of  phantom 

hands. 
So  twice  they  fought,  and  twice  they 

breathed,  and  still 
The  dew  of  their  great  labor,  and  the 

blood 
Of  their  strong  bodies,  flowing,  drain'd 

their  force. 
But    cither's    force   was  match'd   till 

Yniol's  cry, 
'  Remember  that  great  insult  done  the 

Qiieen," 
Increased  Geraint's,  who  heaved  his 

blade  aloft, 
And  crack'd  the  helmet  thro',  and  bit 

the  bone, 
And  fell'd  him,  and  set  foot  upon  his 

breast. 
And  said,  "Thy  name?"    To  whom 

the  fallen  man 


Made  answer,  groaning,  "  Edyrn,  son 

of  Nudd ! 
Ashamed  am  I  that  I  should  tell  it 

thee. 
My  pride  is  broken :   men  have  seen 

my  fall." 
"  Then,  Edyrn,  son  of  Nudd,"  replied 

Geraint, 
"  These  two  things  shalt  thou  do.  or 

else  thou  diest. 
First,  thou  thyself,  thy  lady  and  thy 

dwarf, 
Shalt  ride  to  Arthur's  court,  and  be- 
ing there. 
Crave  pardon  for  that  msult  done  the 

Queen, 
And  shalt  abide  her  judgment  on  it; 

next. 
Thou  shalt  give  back  their  earldom  to 

thy  kin. 
These   two  things   shalt  thou  do,  or 

thou  shalt  die." 
And  Edyrn  answer'd,  "These  things 

will  I  do, 
For  I  have  never  yet  been  overthrown, 
And  thou  hast  overthrown  me,  and  my 

pride 
Is  broken  down,  for  Enid  sees  my 

fall ! " 
And  rising   up,   he  rode  to  Arthur's 

court, 
And    there    the    queen    forgave  him 

easily. 
And  being  young,  he  changed  himself, 

and  grew 
To  hate  the   sin  that  seem'd  so  like 

his  own. 
Of  Modred,  Arthur's  nephew,  and  fell 

at  last 
In  the   great  battle   fighting  for   the 

king. 

But  when  the   third  day  from  the 

hunting-morn 
Made  a  low  splendor  in  the  world,  and 

wings 
Moved  in  her  ivy,  Enid,  for  she  lay 
With  her  fair  head  in  the  dim-yellow 

light, 
Among  the  dancing  shadows  of   th« 

birds, 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


265 


Woke  and  bethought  her  of  her  prom- 
ise given 

No  later  than  last  eve  to  Prince  Ge- 
raint — 

So  bent  he  seem'd  on  going  the  third 
day, 

He  would  not  leave  her,  till  her  prom- 
ise given — 

To  ride  with  him  this  morning  to  the 
court, 

And  there  be  made  known  to  the 
stately  Queen, 

And  there  be  wedded  with  all  cere- 
mony, [dress. 

At   this  she  cast  her  eyes  upon  her 

And  thought  it  never  yet  had  look'd 
so  mean. 

For  as  a  leaf  in  mid-November  is 

To  what  it  was  in  mid-October,  seem'd 

The  dress  that  now  she  look'd  on  to 
the  dress      •  [raint. 

She  look'd  on  ere  the  coming  of  Ge- 

And  still  she  look'd,  and  still  the  ter- 
ror grew 

Of  that  strange  bright  and  dreadful 
thii\g,  a  court, 

All  staring  at  her  in  her  faded  silk : 

And  softly  to  her  own  sweet  heart  she 
said : 

"This  noble  Prince  who  won  our 

earldom  back. 
So  splendid  in  his  acts  and  his  attire, 
Sweet  heaven  !  how  much  I  shall  dis- 
credit him ! 
W®uld  he   could  tarry  with  us  here 

awhile  ! 
But  being  so  beholden  to  the  Prince 
It  were  but  little  grace  in  any  of  us, 
Bent  as  he  seem'd  on  going  this  third 

day, 
To  seek  a  second  favor  at  his  hands. 
Yet   if   he   could   but   tarry  a  day  or 

two, 
Myself  would  work  eye  dim,  and  finger 

lame. 
Far    liefer    than    so    much    discredit 

him." 

And  Enid  fell  in  longing  for  a  dress 
All  branch'd  and  flower'd  with  gold,  a 
costly  gift 


Of  her  good  mother,  given  her  on  the, 

night 
Before  her  birthday,  three  sad  years 

ago, 
That  night  of  fire,  when  Edyrn  sack'd 

their  house. 
And  scatter'd  all  they  had  to  all  the 

winds ; 
For  while  the  mother  show'd  it,  and 

the  two 
Were  turning  and    admiring  it,   the 

work 
To  both  appear'd  so  costly,  rose   a 

cry 
That  Edyrn's  men  were  on  them,  and 

they  fled 
With  little  save  the  jewels  they  had 

on, 
Which  being  sold  and  sold  had  bought 

them  bread  : 
And  Edyrn's  men  had  caught  them  in 

their  flight. 
And  placed  them  in  this  ruin ;  and  she 

wish'd 
The  Prince  had  found  her  in  her  an- 
cient home ; 
Then  let  her  fancy  flit  across  the  past, 
And  roam  the  goodly  places  that  she 

knew ; 
And  last  bethought  her  how  she  used 

to  watch. 
Near  that  old  home,  a  pool  of  golden 

carp; 
And  one  was  patch'd  and  blurr'd  and 

lustreless 
Among  his  burnish'd  brethren  of  the 

pool; 
And  half  asleep  she  made  comparison 
Of  that  and  these  to  her  own  faded 

self 
And  the  gay  court,   and  fell   asleep 

again ; 
And  dreamt  herself  was  such  a  faded 

form 
Among  her  burnish'd  sisters  of  the 

pool ; 
But  this  was  in  the  garden  of  a  king ; 
And  tho'  she  lay  dark  in  the  pool,  she 

knew 
That  all  was  bright;    that  all  about 

were  birds 


266 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


Of  sunny  plume  in  gilded  trellis-work ; 
That  all  the  turf  was  rich  in  plots  that 

look'd 
Each  like  a  garnet  or  a  turkis  in  it ; 
And    lords    and    ladies    of   the   high 

court  went 
In  silver  tissue  talking  things  of  state ; 
And  children  of  the  king  in  cloth  of 

gold 
Glanced   at    the   doors  or  gambol'd 

down  the  walks ; 
And  while  she  thought  "  they  will  not 

see  me,"  came 
A  stately  queen  whose  name  was  Gui- 
nevere, 
And  all  the  children  in  their  cloth  of 

gold       '■■ 
Ran  to  her,  crying,  "If  we  have  fish 

at  all 
Let  them  be  gold  :  and  charge     the 

gardeners  now 
To  pick  the  faded  creature  from  the 

pool, 
And  cast  it  on  the  mixen  that  it  die." 
And  therewithal  one  came  and  seized 

on  her, 
And   Enid  started  waking,  with    her 

heart 
All  overshadow'd  by  the  foolish  dream. 
And  lo !  it  was  her  mother  grasping  her 
To  get   her   well   awake ;  and  in   her 

hand 
A  suit  of  bright  apparel,  which  she  laid 
Flat  on  the  couch,  and  spoke  exult- 

ingly  : 

"  See  here,  my  child,  how  fresh  the 

colors  look. 
How  fast  they  hold,  like  colors  of  a 

shell 
That  keeps  the  wear  and  polish  of  the 

wave. 
Why  not }  it  never  yet  was  worn,  I 

trow  ; 
Look  on  it,  child,  and  tell  me  if  you 

know  it." 

And  Enid  look'd,  but  all  confused  at 
first. 
Could  scarce  divide  it  from  her  foolish 
dream, 


Then   suddenly  she   knew   it   and   re. 

joiced. 
And  answer'd,  "  Yea,  I  know  it ;  your 

good  gift. 
So  sadly  lost  on  that  unhappy  night ; 
Your  own  good  gift  I"     "  Yea,  surely," 

said  the  dame, 
"  And  gladly  given   again   this   happy 

morn. 
For  when  the  jousts  were  ended  yester- 
day. 
Went  Yniol  thro'  the  town,  and  every- 
where 
He  found  the  sack  and  plunder  of  our 

house 
All   scatter'd  thro'  the  houses   of  the 

town : 
And  gave   command   that  all     which 

once  was  ours, 
Should  now  be  ours  again  :  and  yester- 

eve. 
While  you  were  talking  sweetly  with 

your  Prince, 
Came  one  with  this  and  laid  it  in  my 

hand. 
For  love  or  fear,  or  seeking  favor  of 

us. 
Because  we   have  our  earldom  back 

again. 
And  yester-eve  I  would  not  tell  you 

of  it. 
But  kept  it  for  a  sweet  surprise  at 

morn. 
Yea,  truly  is  it  not  a  sweet  surprise  ? 
For  I  myself  unwillingly  have  worn 
My  faded  suit,  as  you,   my  child.  Have 

yours. 
And  howsoever  patient,  Yniol  his. 
Ah,  dear,  he  took  me   from   a  goodly 

house. 
With  store  of  rich  apparel,  sumptuous 

fare, 
And  page,   and  maid,   and  squire,  and 

seneschal. 
And  pastime,  both  of  hawk  and  hound, 

and  all 
That  appertains  to  noble  maintenance. 
Yea,   and  he   brought  me  to  a  goodly 

house : 
But  since  our  fortune  slipt  from  sun 

to  shade, 


WYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


26)- 


And  all  thro'  that  young  traitor,  cruel 

need 
Constraint  us,  but  a  better  time  has 

come ; 
So  clothe  yourself  in  this,  that  better 

fits  i 

Our  mended  fortunes   and  a  Prince's 

bride :  ^         ! 

For  tho'  you  won  the  prize  of  fairest 

fair, 
And  tho  I  heard  him  call  you  fairest 

fair, 
Let  never  maiden  think,  however  fair, 
She  is  not  fairer  in  new  clothes  than  i 

old.  I 

And  should  some  great  court-lady  say,  ' 

the  Prince 
Hath  pick'd  a  ragged-robin  from  the 

hedge. 
And  like  a  madman  brought  her  to  the 

court, 
Then  were  you  shamed,  and  worse, 

might  shame  the  Prince 
To  whom    we  are    beholden;  but  I 

know,  ^  [best, 

When  my  dear  child  is  set  forth  at  her 
That  neither  court  nor  country,  tho' 

they  sought 
Thro'  all  the  provinces  like  those  of 

old 
That  lighted  on  Queen  Esther,  has  her 

match." 

Here  ceased  the  kindly  mother  out 

of  breath ; 
And  Enid  listen'd  brightening  as  she 

lay; 
Then,  as  the  white  and  glittering  star 

of  morn 
Parts  from  a  bank  of  snow,  and  by  and 

by 
Slips  into  golden  cloud,  the  maiden 

rose, 
And  left  her  maiden  couch,  and  robed 

herself, 
Help'd  by  the  mother's  careful   hand 

and  eye, 
Without    a    mirror,  in  the    gorgeous 

gown : 
Who,  after,  turn'd  her  daughter  round, 

and  said. 


She  never  yet  had  seen  her  half  so 

fair; 
And  call'd  her  like  that  maiden  in  the 

tale, 
Whom  Gwydion  made  by  glamor  out 

of  flowers. 
And  sweeter  than  the  bride   of  Cassi- 

velaun,  [first 

Flur,  for  whose  love  the  Roman  Cassar 
Invaded    Britain,  "  but  we   beat   him 

back, 
As  this  great  Prince   invaded  us,  and 

we, 
Not  beat  him  back,  but  welcomed  him 

with  joy. 
And  I  can  scarcely  ride   with  you  to 

court, 
For  old  am  I,  and  rough  the  ways  and 

wild ; 
But  Ynibl  goes,  and  I  full   oft  shall 

dream 
I  see  my  princess  as  I  see  her  now, 
Cloth'd  with   my   gift,  and  gay  among 

the  gay." 

But  whilst  the  women  thus  rejoiced, 

Geraint 
Woke  where  he  slept  in  the  high  hall, 

and  call'd 
For  Enid,  and  when  Yniol  made  report 
Of  that  good  mother  making  Enid  gay 
In  such  apparel  as  might  well  beseem 
His  princess,  or  indeed   the    stately 

queen. 
He  answered,  **  Earl,  entreat  her  by  my 

love, 
Albeit  I  give  no  reason  but  my  wish, 
That  she  ride  with  me  in  her  faded 

silk." 
Yniol  with  that  hard  message  we    1;  it 

fell, 
Like  flaws  in    summer  laying    lusty 

corn: 
For   Enid,  all  abash'd,  she   knew  not 

why. 
Dared  not  to  glance  at  her  good  moth- 
er's face, 
But  silently,  in  all  obedience, 
Her  mother  silent  too,  nor  helping  her. 
Laid  from  her  limbs   the  costly-broid 

er'd  gift, 


268 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


And  robed  them  in  her  ancient  suit 
again, 

And  so  descended.  Never  man  re- 
joiced 

More  than  Geraint  to  greet  her  thus 
attired  : 

And  glancing  all  at  once  as  keenly  at 
her, 

As  careful  robins  eye  the  delver's  toil, 

Made  her  cheek  burn  and  either  eyelid 
fall, 

But  rested  with  her  sweet  face  satis- 
fied; 

Then  seeing  cloud  upon  the  mother's 
brow, 

Her  by  both  hands  he  caught,  and 
sweetly  said  : 

"  O  my  new  mother,  be  not  wroth  or 

grieved 
At  your  new  son,  for  my  petition   to 

her. 
When  late  I  left  Caerleon,  our  great 

Queen 
In  words  whose  echo  lasts,  they  were 

so  sweet. 
Made  promise   that  whatever  bride   I 

brought. 
Herself  would  clothe  her  like  the   sun 

in  Heaven. 
Thereafter,  when  I  reach'd  this  ruin'd 

hold, 
Beholding  one  so  bright  in  dark  estate, 
I  vow'd  that  could  I  gain  her,  our  kind 

Queen, 
No  hand  but  Uers,  should  make  your 

Enid  burst 
Sunlike,    from     cloud — and    likewise 

thought  perhaps, 
That  service  done  go  graciously  would 

bind 
The  two  together  ;  for  I  wish  the  two 
To  love  each  other  :  how  should  Enid 

find 
A  nobler  friend  ?     Another  thought  I 

had ; 
T  came  among  you  here  so  suddenly, 
That  tho'  her   gentle   presence   at  the 

lists 
Might  well  have  served  for  proof  that  I 

was  loved, 


I  doubted  whether  filial  tenderness, 

Or  easy  nature,  did  not  let  itself 

Be   moulded  by  your  wishes  for  hei 

weal ; 
Or  whether  some  false  sense  in  her 

own  self 
Of  my  contrasting  brightness,  overbore 
Her  fancy  dwelling  in  this  dusky  hall; 
And  such  a  sense  might  make  her  long 

for  court 
And  all  its  dangerous  glories :  and  I 

thought, 
That    could   I   someway  prove    such 

force  in  her 
Link'd  with  such  love  for  me,  that  at  a 

word 
(No  reason  given  her)  she  could  cast 

aside 
A  splendor  dear  to  women,  new  to  her 
j  And   therefore   dearer;  or   if  not  so 
I  new, 

I  Yet  therefore   tenfold  dearer  by  the 
I  power 

j  Of  intermitted  custom :  then  I  felt 
I  That  I  could  rest,  a  rock  in  ebbs  and 
I  flows, 

I  Fixt  on  her  faith.     Now,  therefore,  I 
I  do  rest, 

A  prophet  certain  of  my  prophecy. 
That  never  shadow  of  mistrust  can 

cross 
Between  us.     Grant  me  pardon  for  my 

thoughts : 
And  for  my  strange    petition  I  will 

make 
Amends  hereafter  by  some  gaudy-day, 
When  your  fair  child  shall  wear  your 

costly  gift 
Beside  your  own  warm  hearth,  with,  on 

her  knees, 
Who  knows  ?  another  gift  of  the  high 

God. 
Which,  maybe,  shall  have  learn'd  to 
lisp  you  thanks." 

He  spoke    the  mother  smiled,  but 

half  in  tears, 
Then    brought  a    mantle    down  and 

wrapt  her  in  it, 
And   claspt  and  kiss'd  hes  and  they 

rode  away. 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING, 


269 


Now  thrice  that  morning  Guinevere 

had  climb'd 
The   giant    tower,    from   whose    high 

crest,  they  say, 
Men  saw  the  goodly  hills  of  Somerset, 
And  white  sails  flying  on  the  yellow 

sea ; 
But  not  to  goodly  hill  or  yellow  sea 
Look'd  the  fair  Queen,  but  up  the  vale 

of  Usk, 
By  the  flat  meadow,  till  she  saw  them 

come 
And  then  descending  met  them  at  the 

gates. 
Embraced  her  with  all  welcome  as  a 

friend, 
And  did  her  honor  as  the   Prince's 

bride. 
And  clothed  her  for  her  bridals  like 

the  sun ; 
And  all  that  week  was  old  Caerleon 

gay, 

For  by  the  hands  of  Dubric,  the  high 

saint. 
They    twain    were    wedded  with    all 

ceremony. 

And  this  was  on  the  last  year's 
Whitsuntide. 

But  Enid  ever  kept  the  faded  silk, 

Remembering  how  first  he  came  on 
her, 

Drest  in  that  dress,  and  how  he  loved 
her  in  it. 

And  all  the  foolish  fears  about  the 
dress. 

And  all  his  journey  toward  her,  as  him- 
self 

Had  told  her,  and  their  coming  to  the 
court.  ^ 

And  now  this  morning  when  he  said 
to  her, 

'*  Put  on  your  worst  and^^meanest 
dress,"  she  found 

And  took  it,  and  array'd  herself  there- 
in. 

O  purblind  race  of  miserable  men, 
How  many  among  us  at  this  very  hour 
Do  forge  a  life-long  trouble  for  our- 
selves, 


By  taking  true   for  false,  or  false  for 

true; 
Plere,  thro'  the  feeble  twilight  of  this 

world 
Groping,  how  many,  until  we  pass  and 

reach 
That  other,  where  we  see  as  we  are 

seen  ! 

So  fared  it  with  Geraint,  who  issuing 

forth 
That   morning,   when   they  both   had 

got  to  horse. 
Perhaps  because  he  loved  her  passion- 
ately, 
And  felt  that  tempest  brooding  round 

his  heart. 
Which,  if  he  spoke  at  all,  would  break 

perforce 
Upon  a  head  so  dear  in  thunder,  said  ; 
"  Not  at  my  side  !    I  charge  you  ride 

before. 
Ever  a  good  way  on  before  ;  and  this 
I  charge  you,  on  your  duty  as  a  wife, 
Whatever   happens,  not   to   speak  to 

me. 
No,   not    a    word!"    and    Enid    was 

aghast  : 
And  forth  they  rode,  but  scarce  three 

paces  on, 
When   crying   out,  "  Effeminate   as   I 

am, 
I  will   not  fight   my  way  with  gilded 

arms, 
All  shall  be  iron  ; "  he  loosed  a  mighty 

purse, 
Hung  at  his  belt,  and  hurl'd  it  toward 

the  squire. 
So  the  last  sight  that  Enid  had  of  home 
Was  all  the  marble  threshold  flashing, 

strown 
With  gold  and  scatter'd  coinage,  and 

the  squire 
Chafing  his  shoulder ;    then  he  cried 

again, 
"  To   the   wilds ! "   and   Enid   leading 

down  the  tracks 
Thro'  which  he  bade  her  lead  him  on, 

they  past 
The  marches,  and  by  bandit-haunted 

holds. 


syo 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


Gray  swamps  and  pools,  waste  places 

of  the  hern, 
And  wildernesses,  perilous  paths,  they 

rode  : 
Round   was   their   pace    at   first,  but 

slacken'd  soon  : 
A  stranger  meeting  them  had  surely 

thought, 
They  rode  so  slowly  and  they  look'd  so 

pale,  [wrong. 

That  each  had  suffer'd  some  exceeding 
TP'or  he  was  ever  saying  to  himself, 
"  O  I  that  wasted  time  to  tend  upon 

her. 
To  compass  her    with    sweet   obser- 
vances. 
To  dress  her  beautifully  and  keep  her 

true  "— 
And  there  he  broke  the  sentence  in 

his  heart 
Abruptly,  as  a  man  upon  his  tongue 
May  break  it,  when  his  passion  masters 

him 
And  she  was  ever  praying  the  sweet 

heavens 
To  save  her  dear  lord  whole  from  any 

wound. 
And  ever  in  her  mind  she  cast  about 
For  that  unnoticed  failing  in  herself, 
Which  made  him  look  so  cloudy  and 

so  cold ; 
Till  the  great  plover's  human  whistle 

amazed 
Her   heart,   and  glancing    round   the 

waste  she  fear'd 
In  every  wavering  brake  an  ambuscade. 
Then  thought  again  "  If  there  be  such 

in  me, 
I  might  amend  it  by  the    grace    of 

heaven. 
If  he  would  only  speak  and  tell  me 

of  it." 

But  when  the  fourth  part  of  the  day 

was  gone, 
Then    Enid   was   aware   of   three  tall 

knights 
On  horseback,  wholly  arm'd,  behind  a 

rock 
la  shadow,  waiting  for  them,  caitiffs 

all: 


And  heard  one  crying  to   his   fellow, 

"  Look, 
Here  comes  a  laggard  hanging  down 

his  head. 
Who  seems  no  bolder  than  a  beaten 

hound  ; 
Come,  we  will  slay  him  and  will  have 

his  horse 
And  armor,  and  his  damsel  shall  be 

ours." 

Then  Enid  ponder'd  in  her  heart, 
and  said  : 
"  I  will  go  back  a  little  to  my  lord, 
And  I  will  tell  him  all  their  caitiff  talk; 
For,  be  he  wroth  even  to  slaying  me. 
Far  licver  by  his  dear  hand  had  I  die, 
Than  that  my  lord  should  suffer  loss 
or  shame." 

Then  she  went  back  some  paces  of 

return, 
Met  his  full   frown   timidly  firm,   and 

said  : 
"  My  lord,  I  saw  three  bandits  by  the 

rock 
Waiting  to  fall  on  you,  and  heard  them 

boast 
That  they  would  slay  you,  and  possess 

your  horse 
And  armor,  and  your  damsel  should  be 

theirs." 

He  made  a  wrathful  answer.  "  Did 
I  wish 

Your  warning  or  your  silence  ?  one 
command 

I  laid  upon  you,  not  to  speak  to  me. 

And  thus  you  keep  it!  Well  then, 
look — for  now. 

Whether  you  wish  me  victory  or  de- 
feat. 

Long  for  my  life,  or  hunger  for  my 
deatK 

Yourself  shall  see  my  vigor  is  not 
lost." 

Then  Enid  waited  pale  and  sorrow- 
ful, 
And  down  upon  him  bare  the  bandil 
three. 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


2yi 


And  at  the  midmost  charging,  Prince 

Geraint 
Drave  the  long  spear  a  cubit  thro'  his 

breast 
And  out  beyond ;  and  then  against  his 

brace 
Of  comrades,  each  of  whom  had  broken 

on  him 
A  lance  that  splinter'd  like  an  icicle, 
Swung  from  his  brand  a  windy  buffet 

out 
Once,  twice,    to    right,   to    left,  and 

stunn'd  the  twain 
Or  slew  them,  and  dismounting  like  a 

man 
That  skins  the  wild  beast  after  slaying 

him, 
Stript  from  the  three  dead  wolves  of 

woman  born 
The  three  gay  suits  of  armor  which 

they  wore. 
And  let  the  bodies  lie,  but  bound  the 

suits 
Of  armor  on  their  horses,  each  on  each. 
And  tied  the    bridle-reins   of   all  the 

three 
Together,  and  said  to  her,  "drive  them 

on 
Before  you ; "  and  she    drove    them 

thro'  the  waste. 

He  follow'd  nearer:  ruth  began  to 

work 
Against   his   anger   in  him,  while   he 

watch'd 
The  being  he   loved  best  in  all   the 

world, 

"With  difficulty  in  mild  obedience 
Driving  them  on  :   he  fain  had  spoken 

to  her,  [wrath 

And  loosed  in  words  of  sudden  fire  the 
And  smoulder'd  wrong  that  burnt  him 

all  within; 
But  evermore  it  seem'd  an  easier  thing 
At  once  without  remorse  to  strike  her 

dead. 
Than  to  cry  "  Halt,"  and  to  her  own 

bright  face 
Accuse  her  of  the  least  immodesty: 
And   thus  tongue-tied,   it  made   him 

wroth  the  more 


That  she  could  speak  whom  his  own 

ear  had  heard 
Call   herself  false :  and  suffering  thus 

he  made 
Minutes  an  age  :  but  in  scarce  longer 

time 
Than  at  Caerleon  the  full-tided  Usk, 
Before  he  turn  to  fall  seaward  again. 
Pauses,  did  Enid,  keeping  watch,  be- 
hold 
In  the   first  shallow  shade  of  a  deep 

wood, 
Before  a  gloom    of   stubborn-shafted 

oaks, 
Three  other  horsemen  waiting,  wholly 

arm'd, 
Whereof  one  seem'd  far  larger  than 

her  lord. 
And  shook  her  pulses,  crying,  "  Look, 

a  prize  1 
Three  horses  and  three  goodly  suits  of 

arms, 
And  all  in  charge  of  whom  ?  a  girl : 

set  on." 
"  Nay,"    said    the    second,    "  yonder 

comes  a  knight." 
The  third,  "  A  craven !  how  he  hangs 

his  head. 
The  giant  answer'd  merrily,  *'  Yea,  but 

one  ? 
Wait  here,  and  when  he  passes  fall 

upon  him." 

^And  Enid  ponder'd  in  her  heart  and 

said, 
"  I  will  abide  the  coming  of  my  lord. 
And  I  will  tell  him  all  their  villany. 
My  lord  is  weary  with  the  fight  before, 
And  they  will  fall  upon  him  unawares. 
I  needs  must  disobey  him  for  his  good  ; 
How  should  I  dare  obey  him  to  his 

harm  ? 
Needs  must  I  speak,  and  tho'  he  kill 

me  for  it, 
I  save  a  life  dearer  to  me  than  mine." 

And  she  abode  his  coming,  and  said 

to  him 
With  timid  firmness,  *'  Have  I  leave  to 

speak } " 
He  said,  "  you  take  it,  speaking,"  and 

she  spoke. 


272 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


"There  lurk  three  villains  yonder  in 

the  wood, 
And  each  of  them  is  wholly  arm'd,  and 

one 
Is  larger  limb'd  than  you  are,  and  they 

say 
That  they  will  fall  upon  you  while  you 

pass." 

To  which  he  flung  a  wrathful  answer 

back: 
"  And  if  there  were  an  hundred  in  the 

wood, 
And    every  man   were    larger-limb'd 

than  I, 
And  all  at  once  should  sally  out  upon  me, 
I  swear  it  would  not  ruffle  me  so  much 
As   you   that   not    obey    me.      Stand 

aside, 
And  if  I  fall,  cleave  to  the  better  man." 

And  Enid  stood  aside  to  wait  the 

event, 
Not  dare  to  watch  the  combat,  only 

breathe 
Short  fits  of  prayer,  at  every  stroke  a 

breath. 
And  he,  she  dreaded  most,  bare  down 

upon  him. 
Aim'd   at  the   helm,  his  lance  err'd  ; 

but  Geraint's, 
A  little  in  the  late  encounter  strain'd, 
Struck  thro' the  bulky  bandit's  corselet 

home, 
And  then  brake  short,  and  down  his 

enemy  roll'd 
And  there  lay  still  :  as  he  that  tells  the 

tale. 
Saw  once  a  great  piece  of  a  promon- 
tory. 
That  had  a  sapling  growing  on  it,  slip 
From  the  long  shore-cliff's  windy  walls 

to  the  beach, 
And  there  lie  still,  and  yet  the  sapling 

grew  : 
So  lay  the  man  transfixt.     His  craven 

pair 
Of  comrades,  making  slowlier  at  the 

Prince, 
When  now  they  saw   their    bulwark 

fallen,  stood ; 


On  whom  the  victor,  to  confound  them 

more, 
Spurr'd  with  his  terrible  war-cry  ;  for 

as  one, 
That  listens  near  a  torrent  mountain- 
brook, 
All  thro'  the  crash  of  the  near  cataract 

hears 
The  drumming  thunder  of  the  huger 

fall 
At  distance,  were  the  soldiers  wont  to 

hear 
His  voice  in  battle,  and  be  kindled  by 

it, 
And  foemcn  scared,  like  that  false  pair 

who  turn'd 
Flying,  but,  overtaken,  died  the  death 
Themselves  had  wrought  on  many  an 

innocent. 

\  Thereon       Geraint,       dismounting, 

■       pick'd  the  lance 

That  pleased  him  best,  and  drew  from 

those  dead  wolves 
Their  three  gay  suits  of  armor,  each 

from  each. 
And  bound  them  on  their  horses,  each 

on  each, 
And  tied  the  bridle-reins  of  all  the  tliree 
Together,   and    said  to    her,  "  Drive 

them  on 
Before  you,"  and  she  drove  them  thro' 
I      the  wood. 

He  follow'd  nearer  still;   the  pain 

she  had 
To  keep  them  in  the  wild  ways  of  the 

wood. 
Two  sets  of  three  laden  with  jingling 

arms. 
Together,  served  a  little  to  disedge 
The  sharpness  of  that  pain  about  her 

heart ; 
And  they  themselves,  like   creatures 

gently  born 
But  into  bad  hands  fall'n,  and  now  so 

long 
By  bandits  groom'd,  prick'd  their  light 

ears,  and  felt 
Her  low  firm  voice  and  tender  govern' 

ment. 


TDYLS  OF  THE  JTING. 


273 


So   thro'  the   green   gloom    of  the 

wood  they  past, 
And  issuing  under  open  heavens  be- 
held 
A  little  town  with  towers,  upon  a  rock, 
And  close  beneath,  a  meadow  gemlike 

chased 
In  the  brown  wild,  and  mowers  mowing 

in  it: 
And  down  a  rocky  pathway  from   the 

place 
There  came  a  fair-hair'd  youth,  that  in 

his  hand 
Bare   victual    for    the    mowers :   and 

Geraint 
Had  ruth  again  on  Enid  looking  pale  : 
Then,  moving  downward  to  the  meadow 

ground, 
He,  when  the  fair-hair'd  youth  came 

by  him,  said, 
"Friend,  let  her  eat;  the  damsel  is  .so 

faint." 
"Yea,  willingly,"  replied   the   youth; 

"and  you. 
My  lord,  eat  also,  tho'  the  fare  is  coarse, 
And  only  meet  for  mowers  ;  "  then  set 

down 
His  basket,  and  dismounting  on  the 

sward 
They  let  the   horses    graze,  and  ate 

themselves. 
And  Enid  took  a  little  delicately, 
Less  having  stomach  for  it  than  desire 
To  close  with  her  lord's  pleasure  ;  but 

Geraint 
Ate  all  the  mowers'  victual  unawares, 
And   when   he   found   all  empty,  was 

amazed : 
And  "  Boy,"  said  he,  •*  I  have  eaten  all, 

but  take 
A  horse  and  arms  for  guerdon  ;  choose 

the  best." 
He,  reddening  in  extremity  of  delight, 
^'  My  lord,  you  overpay  me  fifty  fold." 
"You  will  be  all  the  wealthier,"  cried 

the  Prince. 
"  I  take  it  as  free  gift,  then,"  said  the 

boy, 
•*  Not  guerdon  ;  for  myself  can  easily, 
While  your  good  damsel  rests,  return, 

and  fetch 


Fresh  victual  for  these  mowers  of  oui 

Earl; 
For  these  are  his,  and  all  the  field  iij 

his. 
And  I  myself  am  his ;  and  I  will  tell 

him 
How  great  a  man  you  are  :  he  loves  to 

know 
When  men  of  mark  are  in  his  territory  i 
And  he  will  have  you   to  his  palace 

here. 
And    serve  you    costlier    than    with 

mowers'  fare." 

Then  said  Geraint,  "  I  wish  no  bet- 
ter fare  : 

I  never  ate  with  angrier  appetite 

Than  when  I  left  your  mowers  dinner- 
less. 

And  into  no  Earl's  palace  will  I  go. 

I  know,  God  knows,  too  much  of  pal- 
aces ! 

And  if  he  want  me,  let  him  come  to 
me. 

But  hire  us  some  fair  chamber  for  the 
night, 

And  stalling  for  the  horses,  and  re- 
turn 

With  victual  for  these  men,  and  let  us 
know." 

"  Yea,  my  kind  lord,"  said  the  glad 
youth,  and  went, 

Held  his  head  high,  and  thought  him- 
self a  knight, 

And  up  the  rocky  pathway  disap- 
pear'd, 

Leading  the  horse,  and  they  were  left 
alone. 

But  when  the  Prince   had  brought 

his  errant  eyes 
Home  from  the  rock,  sideways  he  let 

them  glance 
At  Enid,  where  she  droopt :  his  own 

false  doom, 
That  shadow  of  mistrust  should  never 

cross 
Betwixt  them,  came  upon  him,  and  he 

Sigh'd; 
Then  with  another  humorous  ruth  re» 

mark'd 


274 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


The  lusty  mowers  laboring  dinnerless, 

And  watch'd  the  sun  blaze  on  the  turn- 
ing scythe, 

And  after  nodded  sleepily  in  the  heat. 

But  she,  remembering  her  old  ruin'd 
hall, 

And  all  the  windy  clamor  of  the  daws 

About  her  hollow  turret,  pluck'd  the 
grass 

There  growing  longest  by  the  mead- 
ow's edge, 

And  into  many  a  listless  annulet, 

Now  over,  now  beneath  her  marriage- 
ring. 

Wove  and  unwove  it,  till  the  boy  re- 
turn'd 

And  told  them  of  a  chamber,  and  they 
went;  [will. 

Where,  after  saying  to  her,  "If  you 

Call  for  the  woman  of  the  house,"  to 
which 

She  answer'd,  *'  Thanks,  my  lord ; " 
the  two  remain'd 

Apart  by  all  the  chamber's  width,  and 
mute 

As  creatures  voiceless  thro'  the  fault 
of  birth. 

Or  two  wild  men  supporters  of  a 
shield. 

Painted,  who  stare  at  open  space,  nor 
glance 

The  one  at  other,  parted  by  the  shield. 

On  a  sudden,  many  a  voice  along 
the  street. 
And  heel  against  the  pavement  echo- 
ing, burst 
Their  drowse ;  and  either  started  while 

the  door, 
Push'd  from  without,  drave  backward 

to  the  wall, 
And  midniost  of  a  rout  of  roisterers. 
Femininely  fair  and  dissolutely  pale. 
Her  suitor  in  old  years  before  Geraint, 
Euter'd,  the   wild   lord   of   the  place, 

Limours. 
He  moving  up  with  pliant  courtliness. 
Greeted  G'eraint  full  face,  but  stealth- 
ily, 
In  the   mid-warmth  of  welcome   and 
graspt  hand, 


Found  Enid  with  the  corner  of  his 
eye. 

And  knew  her  sitting  sad  and  solitary. 

Then  cried  Geraint  for  wine  and  good- 
ly cheer 

To  feed  the  sudden  guest,  and  sump- 
tuously 

According  to  his  fashion,  bade  the 
host 

Call  in  what  men  soever  were  his 
friends,  [earl ; 

And  feast  with  these  in  honor  of  their 

"And  care  not  for  the  cost;  the  cost 
is  mine." 

And  wine  and  food  were  brought, 

and  Earl  Limours 
Drank  till  he  jested  with  all  ease,  and 

told 
Free   tales,    and   took   the   word   and 

play'd  upon  it. 
And  made  it  of  two  colors;  for  his 

talk. 
When  wine  and  free  companions  kin- 
dled him, 
Was  wont  to  glance  and  sparkle  like  a 

gem 
Of   fifty   facets;   thus   he   moved   the 

Prince  [plause. 

To  laughter  and  his  comrades  to  ap- 
Then,   when    the    Prince    was  merry, 

ask'd  Limours, 
"  Your  leave,  my   lord,  to   cross   the 

room,  and  speak 
To  your  good  damsel  there  who  sits 

apart 
And  seems  so  lonely?"     "My  free 

leave,"  he  said ; 
"  Get   her   to    speak  :    she    docs   not 

speak  to  me." 
Then  rose  Limours  and  looking  at  his 

feet, 
Like  him  who  tries  the  bridge  he  feaxs 

may  fail, 
Crost  and  came  near,  lifted  adoring 

e)'es, 
Bow'd  at  her  side  and  utter'd  whisper- 

ingly  : 

"  Enid,  the  pilot   star    of   my  lone 
life, 
Enid  my  early  and  my  only  love, 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING, 


275 


Enid  the  loss  of  whom  has  turn'd  me 

wild— 
What  chance  is  this  ?  how  is  it  I  see 

you  here  ? 
You  are  in  my  power  at  last,  are  in  my 

power. 
Yet  fear  me  not :  I  call  mine  own  self 

wild, 
But  keep  a  touch  of  sweet  civility 
Here  in  the  heart  of  waste  and  wilder- 
ness.' 
I  thought,  but  that  your  father  came 

between, 
In  former  days  you  saw  me  favorably. 
And  if  it  were  so  do  not  keep  it  back : 
Make  me  a  little  happier  :  let  me  know 

it: 
Owe  you  me  nothing  for  a  life  half- 
lost  ? 
Yea,  yea,  the  whole  dear  debt  of  all 

you  are. 
And,  Enid,  you  and  he,  I  see  it  with 

joy— 
You  sit  apart,  you  do  not  speak  to 

him, 
You  come  with  no  attendance,  page  or 

maid,  [old  ? 

To  serve  you — does  he  love  you  as  of 
For,   call    it    lovers'    quarrels,   yet   I 

know 
Tho'  men  may  bicker  with  the  things 

they  love, 
They  would  not  make  them  laughable 

in  all  eyes. 
Not  while  they  loved  them :  and  your 

wretched  dress, 
A  wretched    insult    on  you,   dumbly 

speaks 
Your  story,  that  this  man  loves  you  no 

more. 
Your  beauty  is  no  beauty  to  him  now  : 
A  common  chance — right  well  I  know 

it— pall'd— 
For   I    know   men — nor  will  you  win 

him  back. 
For  the  man's  love  once  gone  never 

returns. 
But  here  is  one  who  loves  you  as  of 

old; 
With  more  exceeding  passion  than  of 

old: 


Good,  speak  the  word :  my  followers 

ring  him  round  : 
He  sits  unarm' d;  I  hold  a  finger  up; 
They  understand :  no ;  I  do  not  mean 

blood ; 
Nor  need  you  look  so  scared  at  whal  I 

say  : 
My  malice  is  no  deeper  than  a  moat. 
No  stronger  than  a  wall :  there  is  the 

keep  : 
He  shall  not  cross  us  more;  speak  but 

the  word : 
Or  speak  it  not;  but  then  by  Him  that 

made  me 
The   one  true  lover  which  you  ever 

had, 
I  will  make  use  of  all  the  power  I 

have. 
O  pardon  me !    the  madness  of  that 

hour. 
When  first  I  parted  from  you,  moves 

me  yet." 

At  this  the  tender  sound  of  his  own 

voice 
And  sweet  self-pity,  or  the  fancy  of  it. 
Made  his  eye  moist;  but  Enid  fear'd 

his  eyes, 
Moist  as  they  were,  wine-heated  from 

the  feast ; 
And  answer'd  with  such  craft  as  women 

use. 
Guilty   or    guiltless,  to    stave    off    a 

chance 
That    breaks    upon   them   perilously, 

and  said : 

"  Earl,  if  you  love  me  as  in  former 
years, 

And  do  not  practise  on  me,  come  with 
morn. 

And  snatch  me  from  him  as  by  vio- 
lence ; 

Leave  me  to-night:  I  am  weary  to  the 
death." 

Low  at  leave-taking,  with  his  bran- 
dish'd  plume 

Brushing  his  instep,  bow'd  the  all- 
amorous  Earl, 

And  the  stout  Prince  bade  him  a  loud 
good-night. 


276 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


He  moving  homeward  babbled  to  his 

men, 
How   Enid   never  loved   a   man    but 

him, 
Nor  cared  a  broken  egg-shell  for  her 

lord. 

But  Enid  left  alone  with  Prince  Ge- 
raint, 

Debating  his  command  of  silence 
given, 

And  that  she  now  perforce  must  vio- 
late it, 

Held  commune  with  herself,  and  while 
she  held 

He  fell  asleep,  and  Enid  had  no  heart 

To  wake  him,  but  hung  o'er  him, 
wholly  pleased 

To  find  him  yet  unwounded  after 
fight, 

And  hear  him  breathing  low  and 
equally. 

Anon  she  rose,  and  stepping  lightly, 
l.eap'd 

The  pieces  of  his  armor  in  one  place. 

All  to  be  there  against  a  sudden  need ; 

Then  dozed  awhile  herself,  but  over- 
toil'd 

By  that  day's  grief  and  travel,  ever- 
more 

Seem'd  catching  at  a  rootless  thorn, 
and  then 

Went  slipping  down  horrible  preci- 
pices. 

And  strongly  striking  out  her  limbs 
awoke ; 

Then  thought  she  heard  the  wild  Earl 
at  the  door. 

With  all  his  rout  of  random  followers, 

Sound  on  a  dreadful  trumpet,  summon- 
ing her ; 

Which  was  the  red  cock  shouting  to 
the  light. 

As  the  gray  dawn  stole  o'er  the  dewy 
world. 

And  glimmer'd  on  his  armor  in  the 
room. 

And  once  again  she  rose  to  look  at 
it, 

But  touch'd  it  unawares :  jangling,  the 
casque 


Fell,  and  he  started  up  and  stared  at 

her. 
Then  breaking  his  command  of  silenc« 

given, 
She  told  him  all  that  Earl  Limouis  had 

said, 
Except  the  passage  that  he  loved  her 

not; 
Nor  left  untold  the  craft  herself  had 

used; 
But  ended  with  apology  so  sweet, 
Low-spoken,  and  of  so  few  words,  and 

seem'd 
So  justified  by  that  necessity. 
That  tho'  he  thought  "was  it  for  him 

she  wept 
In  Devon  t "  he  but  gave  a  wrathful 

groan, 
Saying  "your  sweet  faces  make  good 

fellows  fools 
And  traitors.     Call  the  host  and  bid 

him  bring  [out 

Charger  and  palfrey."     So  she  glided 
Among  the  heavy  breathings  of  the 

house, 
And   like   a   household  Spirit  at   the 

walls 
Beat,  till  she  woke  the  sleepers,  and 

return'd  : 
Then  tending  her  rough  lord,  tho'  all 

unaskM, 
In  silence,  did  him  service  as  a  squire; 
Till  issuing  arm'd  he  found  the  host 

and  cried 
"  Thy  reckoning,  friend ,''  "  and  ere  he 

learnt  it,  "  Take 
Five  horses  and  their  armors ;  "  and 

the  host 
Suddenly  honest,  answer'd  in  amaze, 
"My   lord,    I   scarce   have   spent   the 

worth  of  one  !  " 
"  You  will  be  all  the  wealthier,"  said 

the  Prince, 
And  then  to  Enid,  *'  Forward  !  and  to- 
day 
I  charge  you,  Enid,  more  especially, 
What  thing  soever  you  may  hear  01 

see, 
Or  fancy  (tho'  I  count  it  of  small  use 
To  charge  you)  that  you  speak  not 

but  obey." 


/DYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


277 


And  Enid  answer'd,  "Yea,  my  lord, 

I  know 
Your  wish,  and  would  obey :  but  riding 

first, 
I  hear  the  violent  threats  you  do  not 

hear, 
I  see  the   danger  which   you   cannot 

see; 
Then  not  to  give  you  warning,  that 

seems  hard : 
Almost    beyond    me  :     yet    I    would 

obey." 

"Yea,  so,"  said  he,  "doit:  be  not 

too  wise ; 
Seeing  that  you  are  wedded  to  a  man. 
Not  quite  mismated  with  a  yawning 

clown. 
But  one  with  arms  to  guard  his  head 

and  yours, 
With  eyes  to  find  you  out  however 

far, 
And  ears  to  hear    you    even  ii|  his 

dreams." 

"With  that  he  turned  and  looked  as 
keenly  at  her 

As  careful  robins  eye  tTie  delver's 
toil ; 

And  that  within  her  which  a  wanton 
fool. 

Or  hasty  judger,  would  have  called 
her  guilt. 

Made  her  cheek  burn  and  either  eye- 
lid fall. 

And  Geraint  look'd  and  was  not  sat- 
isfied. 

Then  forward  by  a  way  which,  beaten 

broad. 
Led  trom  the   territory  of  false   Li- 

mours 
To  the  waste  earldom  of  another  earl, 
Doorm,    whom    his    shaking    vassals 

call'd  the  Bull, 
Went  Enid  with  her  sullen  follower 

on. 
Once  she  look'd  back,  and  when  she 

saw  him  ride 
More  near  by  many  a  rood  than  yes- 

termorn, 


It   wellnigh   made   her   cheerful :    till 

Geraint 
Waving  an  angry  hand  as  who  should 

say 
"You  watch   me,"  saddened  all   her 

heart  again. 
But   while   the   sun   yet   beat  a  dewy 

blade. 
The  sound  of  many  a  heavily-galloping 

hoof 
Smote  on  her  ear,  and  turning  round 

she  saw 
Dust,  and  the  points  of  lances  bicker 

in  it. 
Then  not  to  disobey  her  lord's  behest. 
And  yet  to  give  him  warning,  for  he 

rode 
As  if  he  heard  not,  moving  back  she 

held 
Her  finger  up,  and  pointed  to  the  dust. 
At  which  the  warrior  in  his  obstinacy, 
Because  she  kept  the  letter  of  his  word 
Was  in  a  manner  pleased,  and  turning, 

stood. 
And  in    the    moment  after,  wild  Li<. 

mours, 
Borne  on  a  black  horse,  like  a  thunder- 
cloud 
Whose  skirts  are  loosen'd  by  the  break- 
ing storm,  [rode, 
Half  ridden  off  with  by  the  thing  he 
And  all    in    passion    uttering    a  dry 

shriek, 
Dash'd  on  Geraint,  who  closed  with 

him  and  bore 
Down  by  the  length  of  lance  and  arm 

beyond 
The  crupper,  and  so  left  him  stunn'd 

or  dead, 
And  overthrew  the  next  that  follow'd 

him. 
And  blindly  rush'd  on  all  the  rout  be- 
hind. 
But  at  the  flash  and  motion  of  the  man 
They   vanish'd   panic-stricken,  like   a 

shoal 
Of  darting    fish,   that   on   a  summer 

morn 
Adown  the  crystal  dikes  at  Camelot 
Come  slipping  o'er  their  shadows  on 

the  sand, 


278 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KTI^G. 


But   if  a  man  who  stands   upon   the 

brink 
But  lift  a  shining  hand  against  the  sun, 
There  is  not  left  the  twinkle  of  a  fin 
Betwixt    the    cressy    islets    white    in 

flower; 
So,  scared   but  at  the  motion  of  the 

man, 
Fled  all  the  boon  companions  of  the 

Earl, 
And  left  him  lying  in  the  public  way : 
So  vanish   friendships   only  made   in 

wine. 

Then   like   a   stormy  sunlight  smiled 

Geraint, 
"Who  saw  the  chargers  of  the  two  that 

fell 
Start  from  their  fallen  lords,  and  wildly 

fly, 

Mixt  with    the    flyers.     "Horse    and 

man,"  he  said, 
"  All  of  one  mind  and  all  right-honest 

friends ! 
Not  a  hoof  left ;  and  I  methinks  till 

now 
Was    honest — paid  with    horses  and 

with  arms; 
I  cannot  steal  or  plunder,  no  nor  beg  : 
And  so  what   say  you,  shall  we  strip 

him  there 
Your   lover?   has   your  palfrey   heart 

enough 
To  bear  his  armor  ?  shall  we  fast  or 

dine? 
No  ? — then  do  you,  being  right  honest, 

pray 
That  we  may  meet  the  horsfemen  of 

Earl  Doorm, 
I  too  would  still  be  honest."    Thus  he 

said  ; 
And  sadly  gazing  on  her  bridle-reins, 
And  answering  not  one  word,  she  led 

the  way. 

But  as  a  man  to  whom  a  dreadful 

loss 
Falls  in  a  far  land  and  he  knows  it 

not, 
Bwt  coming  back  he  learns  it,  and  the 

loss 


So  pains  him  that  he  sickens  nigh  to 

death ; 
So  fared  it  with  Geraint,  who   being 

prick'd 
In   combat   with  the   follower  of   Li' 

mours. 
Bled  underneath  his  armor  secretly, 
And  so   rode  on,  nor  told  his   gentle 

wife 
What  ail'd  him,  hardly  knowing  it  him- 
self. 
Till  his  eye  darken'd  and  his  helmet 

wagg'd ; 
And   at   a    sudden    swerving    of    the 

road, 
Tho'  happily  down  on  a  bank  of  grass, 
The  Prince,  without  a  word,  from  his 

horse  fell. 

And  Enid  heard  the  clashing  of  his 

fall, 
Suddenly  came,  and  at  his  side  all  pale 
Dismounting,  loosed  the  fastenings  of 

his  arms. 
Nor  let  her  true  hand  falter,  nor  blue 

eye 
Moisten,  till   she   had   lighted   on   his 

wound. 
And  tearing  off  her  veil  of  faded  silk 
Had  bared  her  forehead  to  the  blister  • 

ing  sun. 
And  swathed  the  hurt  that  drain'd  her 

dear  lord's  life. 
Then  after   all   was   done   that   hand 

could  do, 
She  rested,  and  her  desolation  came 
Upon  her,  and  she  wept  beside   the 

way. 

And  many  past,  but  none  regarded 

her, 
For  in  that  realm  of  lawless  turbulence, 
A  woman  weeping  for   her   murder'd 

mate 
Was  cared  as  much  for  as  a  summ^er 

shower  : 
One   took  him  for  a  victim  of  Earl 

Doorm, 
Nor  dared  to  waste  a  perilous  pity  on 

him : 
Another  hurrying  past,  a  man-at-arm% 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


279 


Rode  on  a  mission  to  the  bandit  Earl ; 
Half  whistling  and  half  singing  a  coarse 

song, 
He  drove  the  dust  against  her  veilless 

eyes  : 
Another,   flying    from    the    wrath    of 

Doorm 
Before  an  ever-fancied  arrow,  made 
The  long  way  smoke  beneath  him  in 

his  fear ; 
At  which  her  palfrey  whinnying  lifted 

heel, 
And  scour'd  into  the  coppices  and  was 

lost, 
While  the  great  charger  stood,  grieved 

like  a  man. 

But  at  the  point  of  noon  the  huge 

Earl  Doorm, 
Broad-faced  with  under-fringe  of  russet 

beard, 
Bound  on  a  foray,  rolling  eyes  of  prey. 
Came   riding  with   a   hundred   lances 

up; 
But  ere  he  came,  like  one  that  hails  a 

ship, 
Cried  out  with  a  big  voice,  "  What,  is 

he  dead  ? " 
*•  No,  no,  not  dead  ! "  she  answer'd  in 

all  haste. 
*'  Would  some  of   your  kind  people 

take  him  up, 
And  bear  him  hence  out  of  this  cruel 

sun; 
Most  sure  am  I,  quite  sure,  he  is  not 

dead." 

Then  said  Earl  Doorm :  "  Well,  if 

he  be  not  dead. 
Why  wail  you  for  him  ihus  "i  you  seem 

a  child. 
And  be  he  dead,  I  count  you  for  a 

fool 
Your  wailing  will   not  quicken   him : 

dead  or  not. 
You  mar  a  comely  face  witli  idiot  tears. 
Yet,  since  the  face  is  comely — some  of 

you. 
Here,  take  him  up,  and  bear  him  to 

our  hall : 
And  if  he  live,  we  will  have  him  of  our 

band ; 


And   if  he   die,  why  earth   has   earth 

enough 
To  hide  him.     See  ye  take  the  charger 

too, 
A  noble  one." 

He  spake,  and  past  away, 
But  left    two  brawny   spearmen,  who 

advanced. 
Each   growling   like  a  dog,  when   his 

good  bone 
Seems  to  be  pluck'd  at  by  the  village 

boys 
Who  love  to  vex  him  eating,  and  he 

fears 
To  lose   his   bone,  and   lays   his   foot 

upon  it. 
Gnawing  and  growling ;  so  the  ruffians 

growl'd, 
Fearing   to   lose,  and   all  for   a  dead 

man, 
Their  chance  of  booty  from  the  morn- 
ing's raid ; 
Yet  raised  and  laid  him  on  a  litter-bier. 
Such  as  they  brought  upon  their  forays 

out 
For  those  that  might  be  wounded  ;  laid 

him  on  it 
All  in  the   hollow  of   his   shield,  and 

took 
And  bore   him   to   the  naked  hall  of 

Doorm,  [led) 

(His  gentle  charger  follow-ing  him  un- 
And  cast  him  and  the  bier  in  which  he 

lay 
Down  on  an  oaken  settle  in  the  hall, 
And  then  departed,  hot  in  haste  to  join 
Their   luckier  mates,  but  growling  as 

before. 
And  cursing  their   lost  time,  and  the 

dead  man. 
And   their   own   Earl,  and   their   own 

souls,  and  her. 
They  might  as  well  have  blest  her:  she 

was  deaf 
To  blessing  or  to  cursing  save  from 
one. 

So  for  long  hours  sat  Enid  by  her 
lord. 
There  in  the  naked  hall,  propping  his 
head, 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KINO, 


And  chafing  his  pale  hands,  and  call- 
ing to  him. 

And  at  the  last  he  vvaken'd  from  his 
swoon, 

And  found  his  own  dear  bride  prop- 
ping his  head. 

And  chafing  his  faint  hands,  and  call- 
ing to  him ; 

And  left  the  warm  tears  falling  on  his 
face  ; 

And  said  to  his  own  heart,  "  She  weeps 
for  me ; " 

And  yet  lay  still,  and  feign'd  himself 
as  dead, 

That  he  might  prove  her  to  the  utter- 
most, 

And  say  to  his  own  heart,  "  She  weeps 
for  me." 

ut  in  the  falling  afternoon  return'd 
The  huge  Earl  Doorm  with  plunder  to 

the  hall. 
His  lusty  spearmen  follow'd  him  with 

noise : 
Each   hurling  down  a  heap  of  things 

that  rang 
Against  the  pavement,  cast  his  lance 

aside, 
And  doff'd  his  helm  :  and  then  there 

flutter'd  in. 
Half-bold,   half-frighted,   with   dilated 

eyes,  [hues, 

A   tribe   of  women,  dress'd  in   many 
And  mingled  with  the  spearmen :  and 

Earl  Doorm 
Struck  with  a  knife's  haft  hard  against 

the  board. 
And  call'd  for  flesh  and  wine  to  feed 

his  spears. 
And  men  brought  in  whole  hogs  and 

quarter  beeves. 
And  all  the  hall  was  dim  with  steam  of 

flesh: 
And  none  spake  word,  but  all  sat  down 

at  once. 
And  ate  with  tumult  in  the  naked  hall, 
Feeding   like   horses   when   you   hear 

them  feed ; 
Till  Enid  shrank  far  back  into  herself, 
To  shun  the  wild  ways  of  the  lawless 

tribe. 


But  when  Earl  Doorm  had  eaten  all  ho 

would, 
He  roll'd  his  eyes  about  the  hall,  and 

found 
A  damsel  drooping  in  a  corner  of  it. 
Then  he  remember'd  her,  and  how  she 

wept; 
And  out  of  her  there  came  a  power 

upon  him : 
And    rising  on   the   sudden   he   said, 

*'  Eat ! 
I  never  yet  beheld  a  thing  so  pale. 
God's  curse,  it  makes  me  mad  to  see 

you  weep. 
Eat !    Look  yourself.     Good  luck  had 

your  good  man. 
For  were  I  dead  who  is  it  would  weep 

for  me  t 
Sweet  lady,  never   since  I  first  drew 

breath. 
Have  I  beheld  a  lily  like  yourself. 
And  so  there  lived  some  color  in  your 

cheek. 
There  is   not   one   among   my  gentle- 
women 
Were  fit  to  wear  your  slipper  for  a 

glove. 
But  listen  to  me,  and  by  me  be  ruled, 
'And  I  will  do  the  thing  I  have  not 

done, 
For  you  shall  share  my  earldom  with 

me,  girl,  nest, 

And  we  will  live  like  two  birds  in  one 
And  I  will  fetch  you  forage  from  all 

fields. 
For  I  compel  all  creatures  to  my  will." 

He  spoke  :  the  brawny  spearman  let 

his  cheek 
Bulge  with  the  unswallow'd  piece,  and 

turning,  stared  ; 
While  some,  whose  soul?  the  old  ser* 

pent  long  had  drawn 
Down,  as  the  worm  draws  in  the  with- 

er'd  leaf 
And  makes   it  earth,   hiss'd  each  at 

other's  ear 
What  shall  not  be  recorded — women 

they, 
Women,  or  what  had  been  those  gra- 
cious thingSj 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


2S1 


But  now  desired  the  humbling  of  their 
best, 

YecT,  would  have  helped  him  to  it ;  and 
all  at  once 

They  hated  her,  who  took  no  thought 
of  them, 

But  answer'd  in  low  voice,  her  meek 
head  yet 

Drooping,  "  I  pray  you  of  your  cour- 
tesy. 

He  being  as  he  is,  to  let  me  be.' 

She  spake  so  low  he  hardly  heard 
her  speak, 

But  like  a  mighty  patron,  satisfied 

With  what  himself  had  done  so  gra- 
ciously, 

Assumed  that  she  had  thanked  him, 
adding,  "  Yea, 

£at  and  be  glad,  for  I  account  you 
mine." 

She  answer'd  meekly,  "  How  should 
I  be  glad 
Henceforth  in  all  the  world  at   any- 
thing. 
Until  my  lord  arise  and  look  upon  me  ? " 

Here  the  huge  Earl  cried  out  upon 

her  talk. 
As  all  but  empty  heart  and  weariness 
And  sickly  nothing  ;  suddenly  seized 

on  her, 
And  bare  her  by  main  violence  to  the 

board. 
And  thrust  the  dish  before  her,  crying, 

"Eat." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Enid,  vext,  "  I  will 

not  eat 
Till  yonder  man  upon  the  bier  arise, 
And  eat  with  me."     "Drink,   then," 

he  answered.     "  Here  !  " 
(And  fill'd  a  horn  with  wine  and  held  it 

to  her,) 
**Lo!     I,   myself,  when    flush'd  with 

fight,  or  hot, 
God's  curse,  with  anger, — often  I  mv- 

self, 
Before  I  well  have  drunken,  scarce  can 

eat : 
Drink   therefore,    and   the   wine    will 

change  your  will  " 


"  Not  so,"  she  cried,  "  by  Heaven,  I 

will  not  drink. 
Till  my  dear  lord  arise  and  bid  me  do 

it, 
And  drink  with  me ;  and  if  he  rise  ncv 

more, 
I  will  not  look  at  wine  until  I  die." 

At  this  he  turn'd  all  red  and  paced 

his  hall. 
Now  gnaw'd  his  under,  now  his  upper 

lip, 
And   coming  up   close  to  her,  said  at 

last : 
"  Girl,  for  I  see  you  scorn  my  courte- 
sies. 
Take  warning:  yonder  man  is  surely 

dead ; 
And  I  compel  all  creatures  to  my  will. 
Not   eat    nor   drink.?    And  wherefore 

wail  for  one, 
Who  put  your  beauty  to  this  flout  and 

scorn 
By  dressing  it  in  rags  ?  Amazed  am  I, 
Beholding  how    you  butt   against   my 

wish. 
That  I  forbear  you  thus  :  cross  me  no 

more. 
At  least  put  off  to  please  me  this  poor 

gown. 
This  silken  rag,  this   beggar-woman's 

weed : 
I  love   that  beauty  should  go  beauti- 
fully : 
For  see  you  not  my  gentlewomen  here, 
How  gay,  how  suited  to  the  house  of 

one. 
Who    loves    that    beauty    should  go 

beautifully ! 
Rise  therefore ;  robe  yourself  in  this : 

obey." 

He  spoke,  and  one  among  his  gentle<= 

women 
Display'd   a   splendid   silk  of  foreign 

loom. 
Where  like  a  shoaling  sea  the  lovely 

blue 
Play'd  into  green,  and  thicker  down  tho 

front 
With  jewels  than  the  sward  with  drops 

of  dew. 


2S2 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


"When  all  night  long  a  cloud  clings  to 

the  hill, 
And  with  the  dawn  ascending  lets  the 

day 
Strike  where  it  clung    so  thickly  shone 

the  gems. 

But  Enid  answer'd,  harder  to  be 
moved 

Than  hardest  tyrants  in  their  day  of 
power, 

With  life-long  injuries  burning  un- 
avenged. 

And  now  their  hour  has  come ;  and 
Enid  said  : 

"  In   this  poor  gown  my  dear  lord 

found  me  first, 
And  loved  me  serving  in  my  father's 

hall: 
In  this  poor  gown  I  rode  with  him  to 

court, 
And  there  the  Queen  array'd  me  like 

the  sun  : 
In  this  poor  gown  he  bade  me  clothe 

myself, 
When  now   v/e  rode  upon  this  fatal 

quest 
Of  honor,   where    no   honor    can    be 

gain'd: 
And   this   poor  gown  I  will  not  cast 

aside 
Until  himself  arise  a  living  man, 
And  bid   me   cast  it.     I    have   griefs 

enough: 
Pray  you  be  gentle,  pray  you  let  me  be  : 
I  never  loved,  can  never  love  but  him : 
Yea,  God,  I  pray  you  of  your  gentle- 
ness. 
He  being  as  he  is,  to  let  me  be." 

Then  strode  the  brute  Earl  up  and 

down  his  hall, 
And  took  his  russet  beard  between  his 

teeth ; 
Last,  coming  up  quite  close,  and  in  his 

mood 
Crying,  "  I  count  it  of  no  more  avail, 
Dame,  to  be  gentle  than  ungentle  with 

you; 
Take  my  salute,"  unknightly  with  flat 

hand, 


However  lightly,   smote   her    on  the 

cheek.  - 

Then  Enid,  in  her  utter  helplessness, 
And  since  she  thought,  "he  had  not 

dared  to  do  it. 
Except  he  surely  knew  my  lord  was 

dead," 
Sent  forth  a  sudden  sharp  and  bitter 

cry, 
As  of  a  wild  thing  taken  in  the  trap, 
Which  sees  the  trapper  coming  thro' 

the  wood. 
This  heard  Geraint,  and  grasping  at 

his  sword, 
(It  lay  beside  him  in  the  hollow  shield,) 
Made   but  a  single  bound,  and  with  a 

sweep  of  it 
Shore  thro'  the  swarthy  neck,  and  like 

a  ball 
The  russet-bearded  head  roll'd  on  the 

floor. 
So    died     Earl     Doorm    by    him   he 

counted  dead. 
And   all  the  men   and  women   in  the 

hall 
Rose  when  they  saw  the   dead  man 

rise,  and  fled 
Yelling  as  from  a  spectre,  and  the  two 
Were  left  alone  together,  and  he  said  t 


"Enid  I  have  used  you  worse  than 

that  dead  man ; 
Done  you  more  wrong :  we  both  have 

undergone 
That  trouble  which  has  left  me  thrice 

your  own : 
Henceforward  I  will   rather  die  than 

doubt. 
And  here  I  lay  this  penance  on  myself. 
Not,  tho'  mine  own  ears  heard  you  yes- 

ter-morn — 
You  thought  me  sleeping,  but  I  heard 

you  say, 
I  heard  you  say,  that  you  were  no  true 

wife  : 
I  swear  I  will  not  ask  your  meaning  in 

it: 
I  do  believe  yourself  against  yourself, 
And  will  henceforward  rather  die  than 

doubt." 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


2S3 


And  Enid  could  not  say  one  tender 

word, 
She   felt   so   blunt   and  stupid  at  the 

heart : 
She  only  pray'dhim,  "Fly,  they  will  re- 
turn 
And  slay  you;  fly,  your  charger  is  with- 
out, 
My  palfrey  lost."    «  Then,  Enid,  shall 

you  ride 
Behind  me."     *'  Yea,"  said  Enid,  "  let 

us  go." 
And  moving  out  they  found  the  stately 

horse, 
Who  now  no  more  a  vassal  to  the  thief, 
But  free  to  stretch  his  limbs  in  lawful 

fight, 
Neigh'd  with  all  gladness  as  they  came, 

and  stopp'd 
With  a  low  whinny  toward  the  pair  : 

and  he 
Kiss'd  the  white    star  upon  his  noble 

front, 
Glad  also;    then    Geraint    upon    the 

horse 
Mounted,  and  reach'd  a  hand,  and  on 

his  foot 
She  set  her  own  andclimb'd;  he  turn 'd 

his  face 
And  kiss'd  her  climbing,  and  she  cast 

her  arms 
About  him,  and  at  once  they  rode  away. 


And  never  yet,  since  high  in  Para- 
dise 
O'er  the  four  rivers  the  first  roses  blew. 
Came  purer  pleasure  unto  mortal  kind. 
Than  lived  thro'  her  who  in  that  peril- 
ous hour 
Put   hand   to   hand   beneath   her   hus- 
band's heart, 
And  felt  him  hers  again  ;  she  did  not 

weep, 
But  o'f  r  her  meek  eyes  came  a  happy 

mist 
Like  that  which  kept  the  heart  of  Eden 

green 
Before  the  useful  trouble  of  the  rain: 
Vet  not  so  misty  were  her  meek  blue 
eyes 


As  not  to  see  before  them  on  the  path, 
Right  in   the  gateway   of    the     bandit 

hold, 
A  knight  of  Arthur's  court,   who  laid 

his  lance 
In  rest,  and  made  as  if  to  fall  upon 

him. 
Then,  fearing  for  his  hurt  and  loss  of 

blood. 
She,  with  her  mind  all  full  of  what  had 

chanced, 
Shriek'd  to  the  stranger,  "  Slay  not  a 

dead  man  !  " 
"The  voice  of  Enid,"  said  the  knight: 

but  she, 
Beholding  it  was  Edyrn  son  of  Nudd, 
Was   moved  so   much   the  more,  and 

shriek'd  again, 
"  O  cousin,  slay  not  him  who  gave  you 

life." 
And   Edyrn  moving  frankly    forward 

spake  • 
"  My  lord  Geraint,  I  greet  you  with  all 

love; 
I   took    you    for   a  bandit    knight   of 

Doorm ; 
And  fear  not,  Enid,  I  should  fall  upon 

him. 
Who  love  you,  Prince,  with  something 

of  the  love 
Wherewith  we  love  the    Heaven  that 

chastens  us. 
For  once,  when  I  was  up  so  high  in 

pride 
That  I  was  half  way  down  the  slope  to 

Hell, 
By   overthrowing   me    you   threw    me 

higher, 
Now,  made  a  knight  of  Arthur's  Table 

Round, 
And   since   T  knew  this   Earl,  when  I 

myself 
Was  half  a  bandit  in  my  lawless  hour., 
I  come  the  mouthpiece  of  our  King  to 

Doorm 
(The  King  is  close  behind  me)  bidding 

him 
Disband   himself,   and   scatter   all  his 

p  wers, 
Submit,  and  hear  the  judgment  of  tha 

King." 


2S4 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


*'  lie  hears  the  judgment  of  the  King 

of  Kings," 
Cried  the   wan   Prince:  "and  lo  the 

powers  of  Doorm 
Are  scatter'd,''  and  he  pointed  to  the 

field 
Where,  huddled  here   and    there    on 

mound  and  knoll, 
Were    men    and   women   staring   and 

aghast, 
While  some   yet    fled;    and    then  he 

plainlier  told 
How  the  huge  Earl  lay  slain  within  his 

hall. 
But  when  the   knight  besought    him, 

"  Follow  me. 
Prince,  to  the  camp,  and  in  the  King's 

own  ear 
Speak  what  has  chanced ;  you  surely 

have  endured 
Strange    chances   here   alone ; "     that 

other  flush'd, 
And  hung  his  head,  and  halted   in  re- 
ply. 
Fearing  the  mild  face  of  the  blameless 

King,  [ask'd  : 

And  after  madness  acted  question 
Till  Edyrn  crying,  '*  If  you  will  not  go 
To  Arthur,  then  will  Arthur  come  to 

you," 

**  Enough,"  he   said,   *'  I  follow,"  and 

they  went. 
But  Enid  in  their  going  had  two  fears. 
One  from  the  bandit  scatter'd  in   the 

field, 
And  one  from  Edyrn.     Every  now  and 

then, 
When  Edyrft  rein'd  his  charger  at   her 

side, 
She  shrank  a  little.     In  a  hollow  land, 
From  which  old  fires  have  broken,  men 

may  fear 
Fresh  fire  and  ruin.     He,  perceiving, 

said: 

"  Fair  and  dear  cousin,  you  that  most 

had  cause 
To  fear    me,   fear    no    longer,  I   am 

changed. 
Yourself  were  first  the  blameless  cause 

to  make 


My   nature's   prideful   sparkle   in    t\ie 

blood 
Break    into   furious   flame;    being   re- 
pulsed 
By  Yniol  and  yourself,  I  schemed  and 

wrought 
Until  I  overturn'd  him ;  then  set  up 
(With  one  main  purpose  ever  at  my 

heart) 
My  haughty  jousts,  and  took  a  para- 
mour; 
Did  her  mock-honor  as  the  fairest  fair, 
And,  toppling  over  all  antagonism, 
So  wax'd  in  pride,  that  I  believed  my 

self  [mad  : 

Unconquerable,    for   I    was    well-nigh 
And,  but  for  my  main  purpose  in  these 

jousts, 
I  should  have  slain  your  father,  seized 

yourself. 
I  lived  in  hope  that  some   time  you 

would  come 
To  these  my  lists  with  him  whom  best 

you  loved  ; 
And  there,  poor  cousin,  with  your  meek 

blue  eyes, 
The   truest   eyes   that    ever   answer'd 

heaven. 
Behold  me   overturn   and   trample  on 

him. 
Then,  had  you  cried,  or  knelt,  or  pray'd 

to  me, 
I  should  not  less  have  killed  him.  And 

you  came, — 
But   once   you   came, — and  with  your 

own  true  eyes. 
Beheld  the  man  you  loved  (I  speak  as 

one 
Speaks   of  a  service  done  him)  over- 
throw 
My  proud  self,  and  my  purpose  three 

years  old. 
And  set  his  foot  upon  me,  and  give  me 

life. 
There  was  I  broken  down ;  there  was  1 

saved : 
Tho'  thence  I  rode  all-shamed,  hating 

the  life 
He  gave  me,  meaning  to  be  rid  of  it. 
And  all  the  penance  the  Queen  luid 

upon  me 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING 


=8S 


Was   but   to    rest   awhile   within   her 

court ; 
Where  first  as  sullen  as  a  beast  new- 
caged, 
And  waiting  to  be  treated  like  a  wolf 
Because  I  knew  my  deeds  were  known, 

I  found, 
Instead  of  scornful  pity  or  pure  scorn, 
Such  fine  reserve   and  noble  reticence, 
Manners   so  kind,  yet   stately,  Kuch    a 

grace 
Of  tenderest  courtesy,  that  I  began 
To  glance  behind  me  at  my  former  life. 
And   find    that  it  had  been  the  wolf's 

indeed  : 
And  oft  I  talk'd  with  Dubric,  the  high 

saint, 
Who,  with  mild  heat  of  holy  oratory. 
Subdued   me  somewhat  to  that  gentle- 
ness, 
Which,  when  it  weds  with  manhood, 

makes  a  man. 
And  you  where  often  there   about  the 

Queen, 

But  saw  me  not,  or  marked  not  if  you 

saw ;  (you. 

Nor  did  I  care  or  dare  to  speak  with 

But    kept    myself    aloof    till    I    was 

changed ; 
And  fear  not,  cousin  ;  I  am  changed 
indeed." 

He  spoke,  and  Enid  easily  believed, 
Like  simple  noble  natures,  credulous 
Of  what  they  long  for,  good  in  friend 

or  foe, 
"^here  most  in  those  who  most  have 

done  them  ill. 
And  when   they  reach'd  the  camp  the 

king  himself 
Advanced  to  greet  them,  and  beholding 

her 
Tho'  pale,  yet  happy,  ask'd  her  not  a 

word. 
But  went  apart  with  Edyrn,  whom  he 

held 
In  converse  for  a  little  and  return'd, 
And  gravely  smiling,  lifted  her  from 

horse, 
And  kiss'd  her  with  all  pureness,  bro- 

tJier-likc, 


And  show'd  an  empty  tent  allotted  her. 
And  glancing  for  a  minutt',  till  he  saw 

her 
Pass  into   it,  turn'd  to  the  Prince,  and 

said  : 

"  Prince,  when  of  late  you  pray'd  me 

for  my  leave 
To   move  to  your  own  land,  and   there 

defend 
Your  marches,  I  was  prick'd  with  some 

reproof, 
As    one    that   let   foul  wrong  stagnate 

and  be. 
By  having  look'd  too   much  thro'  alien 

eyes. 
And  wrought  too   long  with  delegated 

hands. 
Not  used  mine  own  :  but  now  behold 

me  come 
To  cleanse   this  common  sewer  of  all 

nw  realm, 
With  Edyrn  and  with  others  :  have  you 

looked 
At  Edyrn  ?   have  you  seen  how  nobly 

changed  ? 
This  work  of  his  is  great  and  wonder- 
ful. 
His  very  face  with  change  of  heart  is 

changed. 
The  world  will  not  believe  a  man  re- 
pents : 
And  this  wise  world   of  ours  is  mainly 

right. 
Full  seldom  does  a  man  repent,  or  use 
Both  grace  and  will  to  pick  the  vicious 

quitch 
Of  blood  and  custom  wholly  out  of  him, 
And  make  all  clean,  and  plant  himself 

afresh. 
Edyrn  has  done  it,  weeding  all  his  heart 
As  I  will  weed  this  land  before  I  go. 
I,   therefore,  made   him  of  our  Table 

Round, 
Not  rashly,  but  have  proved  him  ever^ 

way 
One  of  our  noblest,  our  most  valorous, 
Sanest  and  most  obedient :  and  indeed 
This  work  of  Edvrn  wrought  upon  him- 
self 
After  a  life  of  violence,  seems  to  me 


286 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


A  thousand-fold  more  great  and  wonder- 
ful 

Than  if  some  knight  of  mine,  risking 
his  life, 

My  subject  with  my  subjects  under  him, 

Should  make  an  onslaught  single  on  a 
realm 

Of  robbers,  tho'  he  slew  them  one  by 
one. 

And  were  himself  nigh  wounded  to 
the  death." 

So   spake  the  king ;  low  bow'd   the 

Prince  and  felt 
His  work  was  neither  great  nor  wonder- 
ful. 
And  past   to  Enid's  tent  ;  and  thither 

came 
The  King's  own  leech  to  look  into  his 

hurt ; 
And  Enid   tended   on  him  there;  and 

there 
Her  constant  motion   round  him,  and 

the  breath 
Of  her  sweet  tendance   hovering  over 

him, 
Fill'd  all  the  genial  courses  of  his  blood 
With  deeper  and  with  ever  deeper  love 
At   the   south-west   that  blowing  Bala 

lake 
Fills   all  the  sacred  Dee.     So  past  the 

days. 

But  while  Geraint  lay  healing  of  his 
hurt. 

The  blameless  King  went  forth  and 
cast  his  eyes 

On  whom  his  father  Uther  left  in 
charge 

Long  since,  to  guard  the  justice  of  the 
King  : 

He  look'd  and  found  them  wanting ; 
and  as  now 

Men  weed  the  white  horse  on  the  Berk- 
shire hills 

To  keep  him  bright  and  clean  as  here- 
tofore. 

He  rooted  out  the  slothful  officer 

Or  guilty,  which  f  r  bribe  had  wink'd 
at  wrong. 

And  in  their  chairs  set  up  a  stronger 
race 


With  hearts  and  hands,  and  sent  a 
thousand  men 

To  till  the  wastes,  and  moving  every- 
where 

Clear'd  the  dark  places  and  let  in  the 
law. 

And  broke  the  bandit  holds  and  clean- 
sed the  land. 

Then,  when  Geraint  was  whole  again, 

they  past 
With  Arthur  to  Caerleon  upon  Usk. 
There    the   great   Queen    once    more 

embraced  her  friend. 
And  clothed  her  in  apparel  like  the  day. 
And   tho'   Geraint    could   never   take 

again 
That  comfort  from  their  converse  which 

he  took 
Before    the    Queen's    fair   name  was 

breathed  upon. 
He   rested   well   content    that  all   was 

well.  •  rode, 

Thence  after  tarrying  for  a  space  they 
And  fifty  knights  rode  with  them  to  the 

shores 
Of  Severn,  and  they  past  to  their  own 

land. 
And   there   he  kept  the  justice  of  the 

King 
So  vigorously  yet  mildly,  that  all  hearts 
Applauded,  and   the   spiteful  whisper 

died  : 
And  being  ever  foremost  in  the  chase, 
And  victor  at  the  tilt  and  tournament. 
They  call'd  him  the   great  Prince   and 

man  of  men. 
But   Enid,  whom  her  ladies   loved   to 

call 
Enid  the  Fair,  a  grateful  people  named 
Enid   the    Good  ;    and   in   their  halls 

arose 
The  cry  of  children,  Enids  and  Geraints 
Of  times  to   be  ;  nor  did  he  doubt  her 

more 
But  rested  in  her  fealty,  till  he  crown'd 
A  happy  life  with  a  fair  death,  and  fell 
Against  the  heathen  of  the    Northern 

Sea 
In   battle,  fighting   for  the    blameles* 

King. 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


287 


VIVIEN. 

A  STORM  was  coming,  but  the  winds 

were  still, 
And  in  the  wild  woods  of  Broceliande, 
Before   an   oak,  so   hollow  huge  and 

old, 
It  look'd  a  tower  of  ruin'd  masonwork, 
At  Merlin's  feet  the  wily  Vivien  lay. 

The  wily  Vivien  stole  from  Arthur's 

court  : 
She  hated  all  the  knights,  and  heard  in 

thought 
Their  lavish  comment  when  her  name 

was  named. 
For   once    when    Arthur  walking  all 

alone, 
Vext  at  a  rumor  rife  about  the  Queen, 
Had  met  her,   Vivien,  being  greeted 

fair. 
Would  fain   have   wrought   upon   his 

cloudy  mood 
With  reverent  eyes  mock-loyal,  shaken 

voice, 
And  flutter'd  adoration,  and  at  last 
With  dark   sweet  hints  of  some  who 

prized  him  more 
'Than  who  should  prize  him  most ;   at 

which  the  King 
Had  gazed  upon  her  blankly  and  gone 

by: 
But  one  had  watch'd,  and  had  not  held 

his  peace  : 
It  made  the  laughter  of  an  afternoon 
That  Vivien  should  attempt  the  blame- 
less King. 
And  after  that,  she  set  herself  to  gain 
Him,   the  most  famous  man    of    all 

those  times,  [arts. 

Merlin,  who  knew  the  range  of  all  their 
Had  built  the  King  his  havens,  ships, 

and  halls. 
Was   also  Bard,  and  knew  the  starry 

heavens  ; 
The  people  called  him  Wizard  ;  whom 

at  first 
She    play'd    about     with    slight    and 

sprightly  talk, 
And  vivid  smiles,  and  faintly-venom'd 

points 


Of  slander,  glancing  here  and  grazing 

there  ; 
And  yielding  to  his  kindlier  moods,  the 

Seer 
Would  watch  her  at  her  petulance,  and 

play, 
Ev'n  when  they  seem'd  unlovable,  and 

laugh 
As  those  that  watch  a  kitten  ;  thus  he 

grew 
Tolerant  of  what  he  half  disdain'd,  and 

she. 
Perceiving  that  she  was  but   half   dis- 

dain'd. 
Began  to  break  her  sports  with  graver 

fits, 
Turn   red   or   pale,  would  often  when 

they  met 
Sigh  fully,  or  all-silent  gaze  upon  him 
With  such  a  fixt  devotion,  that  the  old 

man, 
Tho'  doubtful,  felt  the  flattery,  and  at 

times 
Would   flatter  his  own  wish  in  age  fof 

love, 
And  half  believe  her  true  :  for  thus  at 

times 
He  waver'd  ;  but  that   other  clung  to 

him, 
Fixt  in    her   will,   and   so  the  seasons 

went. 
Then  fell  upon  him  a  great  melancholy; 
And  leaving    Arthur's  court  he  gain'cj 

the  beach  ; 
There   found   a   little   boat,  and  stept 

into  it  ; 
And  Vivien  follow'd,  but  he  mark'd 

her  not. 
She  took  the  helm  and  he  the  sail ;  the 

boat 
Drave  with  a  sudden  wind  across  the 

deeps. 
And  touching  Breton  sands  they  disem^ 

bark'd. 
And  then   she  follow'd  Merlin   all  the 

way, 
Ev'n  to  the  wild  woods  of  Broceliande,^ 
For  Merlin  once  had  told  her  of  a  charm' 
The  which  if  any  wrought  on  any  one 
With   woven  paces  and   with  waving 

arm3, 


288 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


The  man  so  wrought  on  ever  seem'd  to 

lie 
Closed  in  the  four  walls  of  the  hollow 

tower, 
From  which  was  no  escape  forever- 
more  ; 
And  none  could  find  that  man  forever- 
more, 
Nor  could  he  see  but  him  who  wrought 

the  charm 
Coming  and  going,  and  he  lay  as  dead 
And  lost  to  life  and  use  and  name  and 

fame. 
And  Vivien  ever  sought   to  work  the 

charm 
Upon  the  great  Enchanter  of  the  Time, 
As  fancying   that  her    glory  would  be 

great 
According  to  his  greatness  whom  she 

quench'd. 
There  lay  she  all  her  length  and  kiss'd 

his  feet. 
As  if  in  deepest  reverence  and  in  love. 
A  twist  of  gold  was  round  her  hair  ;  a 

robe 
Of  samite  ^without  price,  that  more  ex- 

prest 
Than  hid  her,  clung  about  her  lissome 

limbs, 
In  color  like  the  satin-shining  palm 
On  sallows  in   the   windy  gleams  of 

March  : 
And  while   she   kiss'd   them,   crying, 

"  Trample  me, 
Dear  feet,  that   I   have  follow'd  thro' 

the  world. 
And  I  will  pay  you  worship;  tread  me 

down 
And  I  will   kiss   you  for  it  ; "  he  was 

mute  : 
So  dark  a  forethought  roll'd  about  his 

brain, 
As  on  a  dull  day  in  an  Ocean  cave 
The  blind  wave  feeling  round  his  long 

seahall 
In  silence :  wherefore,  when  she  lifted 

up 
A  face  of  sad  appeal,  and  spake  and 

said, 
**  O  Merlin,   do  you   love   me  .'*  "  and 

again, 


"  O   Merlin,   do  you  Ibve  me  ? "'  and 

once  more, 
"  Great  Master,  do  you  love  me  ?"  he 

was  mute. 
And   lissome  Vivien,   holding  by  his 

heel. 
Writhed    toward   him,    slided    up  his 

knee  and  sat, 
Behind  his  ankle  twined  her  hollow 

feet  [neck, 

Together,  curved  an    arm  about  his 
Clung  like   a  snake  ;  and  letting  her 

left  hand 
Droop  from  his  mighty  shoulder  as  a 

leaf, 
Made  with  her  right  a  comb  of  pearl  to 

part 
The  lists  of  such  a  beard  as  youth  gone 

out 
Had  le    in  ashes  :  then  he  spoke  and 

said. 
Not  looking  at  her,  "  Who  are  wise  in 

love 
Love    most,    say  least,"  and  Vivien 

answer'd  quick, 
'*  I  saw  the  little  elf-god  eyeless  once 
In  Arthur's  arras  hall  at  Camelot  : 
But  neither  eyes  nor  tongue, — O  stupid 

child  ! 
Yet  you    are  wise  who  say  it  ;  let  me 

think 
Silence  is  wisdom  ;  I  am  silent  then 
And  ask  no  kiss  ;  "  then  adding  all  at 

once, 
"  And  lo,  I  clothe  myself  with  wisdom," 

drew 
The   vast   and  shaggy  mantle  of  his 

beard 
Across   her  neck  and  bosom  to  her 

knee, 
And  call'd  herself  a  gilded  summer  ily 
Caught  in  a  great   old  tyrant  spider's 

web, 
Who  meant  to  eat  her  up  in  that  wild 

wood 
Without  one  word.     So  Vivien  call'd 

herself. 
But  rather    seem'd  a  lovely    baleful 

star 
Veil'd  in  gray   vapor;    till  he  sadly 

smiled : 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


289 


**To   what   request  for   what  strange 

boon,"  he  said, 
**  Are    these   your   pretty    tricks    and 

fooleries, 

0  Vivien,    the    preamble  ?    yet    my 

thanks. 
For  these  have  broken  up  my   melan- 
choly." 

And  Vivien  answer'd  smiling  saucily, 
"  What,  O  my  master,  have  you  found 
your  voice  ? 

1  bid  the  stranger  welcome.     Thanks 

at  last ! 
But  yesterday  you  never  open'd  lip. 
Except  indeed  to  drink  :  no  cup  had 

we : 
In  mine  own  lady  palms  I  cull'd  the 

spring 
That  gather'd  trickling  dropwise  from 

the  cleft, 
And  made  a  pretty  cup  of  both  my 

hands  [drank 

And  offer'd  you  it  kneeling :  then  you 
And  knew  no  more,  nor  gave  me  one 

poor  word ; 
O  no  more  thanks  than  might  a  goat 

have  given 
With  no  more  sign  of  reverence  than  a 

beard. 
And  when  he  halted  at  that  other  well, 
And  I  was  faint  to  swooning,  and  you 

lay  [those 

Foot-gilt  with  all  the  blossom-dust  of 
Deep  meadows  we  had  traversed,  did 

you  know 
That  Vivien  bathed  your  feet  before 

her  own  } 
And  yet  no  thanks  :  and  all  thro'  this 

wild  wood 
And  all  this  morning  when  I  fondled 

you : 
Boon,  yes,  there  was  a  boon,  one  not 

so  strange — 
How   had  I  wrong'd  }-ou?  surely  you 

are  wise, 
But  such  a  silence  is  more  wise   than 

kind." 

And  Merlin  lock'd  his  hand  in  hers 
and  said  : 
"  O  did  you  never  lie  upon  the  shore, 


And  watch  the  curl'd  white  of  the  com. 

ing  wave 
Glass'd  in  the  slippery  sand  before  it 

breaks  "i 
Ev'n  such  a  wave,  but  not  so  pleasur- 
able. 
Dark  in  the  glass  of  some  presageful 

mood. 
Had  I  for  three  days  seen,  ready  to 

fall. 
And  then  I  rose  and  fled  from  Arthur's 

court 
To  break  the    mood.     You    follow'd 

me  unask'd ; 
And  when  I  look'd,  and  saw  you  fol- 
lowing still. 
My  mind  involved  yourself  the  nearest 

thing 
In  that  mind-mist:  for  shall  I  tell  you 

truth  t 
You  seem'd  that  wave  about  to  break 

upon  me 
And  sweep  me  from  my  hold  upon  the 

world. 
My  use   and  name  and  fame.     Your 

pardon,  child. 
Your  pretty  sports  have  brighten'd  all 

again. 
And  ask  your  boon,  for  boon  I  owe  you 

thrice. 
Once  for  wrong  done  you  by  confusion, 

next 
For  thanks  it  seems  till  now  neglected, 

last 
For  these  your  dainty  gambols :  where- 
fore ask  : 
And  take  this  boon  so  strange  and  not 

so  strange." 

And  Vivien  answer'd,  smiling  mourn- 
fully : 

"  O  not  so  strange  as  my  long  asking 
it, 

Nor  yet  so  strange  as  you  yourself  are 
strange. 

Nor  half  so  strange  as  that  dark  mood 
of  yours. 

I  ever  fear'd  you  were  not  wholly  mine ; 

And  see,  yourself  have  own'd  you  did 
me  wrong. 

The  people  call  you  prophet:  let  it  be: 


290 


JDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


But    not  of    those  that    can  expound 

themselves. 
Take  Vivien  for  expounder;  she  will 

'call 
That  three-days-long  presageful  gloom 

of  yours 
No  presage,  but  the  same  mistrustful 

mood 
That  makes  you  seem  less  noble  than 

yourself, 
"Whenever  I  have  ask'd  this  very  boon, 
Now   ask'd   again :    for   see   you   not, 

dear  love. 
That  such  a  mood  as  that,  which  lately 

gloom'd 
Your  fancy  when  you  saw  me  following 

you, 
Must  make  me  fear  still  more  you  are 

not  mine, 
Must  make   me   yearn    still    more   to 

prove  you  mine, 
And  make  me  wish  still  more  to  learn 

this  charm 
Of  woven  paces  and  of  v/aving  hands. 
As  proof  of  trust.     O  Merlin,  teach  it 

me. 
The  charm  so  taught  will   charm   us 

both  to  rest. 
For,  grant  me  some  slight  power  upon 

your  fate, 
I,  feeling  that  you  felt  me  worthy  trust. 
Should  rest  and  let  you  rest,  knowing 

you  mine, 
And  therefore  be  as  great  as  you  are 

named, 
Not  muffled  round  with  selfish  reticence. 
How   hard  you  look   and  how  deny- 

_  ingly !  _ 

O,  if  you  think  this  wickedness  in  me, 
That   I   should    prove   it  on   you  un- 
awares. 
To  make  you  lose  your  use  and  name 

and  fame, 
That  makes  me  most  indignant ;  then 

our  bond 
Had  best  be  loosed  forever :  but  think 

or  not, 
By  Heaven   that  hears  I  tell  you  the 

clean  truth, 
As  clean  as  blood  of  babes,  as  white  as 

milk: 


0  Merlin,  may  this  earth,  if  ever  I, 

If  these   unwitty  wandering    v/its    of 

mine, 
Ev'n   in    the    jumbled    rubbish    of  a 

dream. 
Have  tript  on  such  conjectural  treach- 
ery— 
May   this   hard    earth    cleave   to    the 

Nadir  hell 
Down,  down,  and  close  again,  and  nip 

me  flat, 
If   I   be   such   a   traitress.     Yield  my 

boon. 
Till  which  I  scarce  can  yield  you  all  I 

am  ; 
And  grant  my  re-reiterated  wisli, 
The  great  proof  of  your  love  ;  becsiise 

I  think, 
However  wise,  you   hardly   know  me 

yet." 

And  Merlin  loosed  his  hand  from  her 

and  said : 
"  I  never  was  less  wise,  however  wise, 
Too  curious  Vivien,  tho'  you  talk  of 

trust. 
Than  when  I  told  you  first  of  such  a 

charm. 
Yea,  if  you  talk  of  trust  I  tell  you  this, 
Too  much  I  trusted,  when  I  told  you 

that. 
And   stirr'd   this   vice   in   you    which 

ruin'd  man 
Thro'  woman  the  first  hour ;  for  how- 

soe'er 
In    children  a  great    curiousness    be 

well. 
Who  have  to  learn  themselves  and  all 

the  world, 
In  you,  that  are  no  child,  for  still  I  find 
Your  face   is   practised,  when  I  spelj 

the  lines, 

1  call  it, — well,  I  will  not  call  it  vice : 
But  since  you  name  yourself  the  sum- 
mer fly, 

I  well  could  wish  a  cobweb  for  the 
gnat, 

That  settles,  beaten  back,  and  beaten 
back 

Settles,  till  one  could  yield  for  weari- 
ness: 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


291 


£lit  since  I  will  not  yield  to  give  you 

power 
Upon  my  life  and  use  and. name  and 

fame, 
Why  will  you   never  ask  some  other 

boon  ? 
Vea,  by  God's  rood,  I  trusted  you  too 

much." 

And    Vivien,    like     the     tenderest- 

hearted  maid 
That  ever  bided  tryst  at  village  stile. 
Made  answer,    either   eyelid  wet  with 

tears. 
*•  Nay,   master,   be   not  wrathful   with 

your  maid ; 
Caress   her :    let  her  feel   herself  for- 
given 
"Who   feels  no   heart   to  ask   another 

boon. 
I   think  you  hardly  know  the  tender 

rhyme 
Of  'trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all.* 
I  heard  the  great    Sir  Lancelot  sing  it 

once. 
And  it  shall  answer  for   me.     Listen 

to  it. 

*  In  Love,  if  Love  be  Love,  if  Love 

be  ours. 
Faith  and  unfaith  can   ne'er  be    equal 

l^owers: 
Unfaith  in  aught  is  want  of  faith  in  all. 

'It  is  the  little  rift  within  the  lute, 
That  by  and  by  will  make  the  music 

mute. 
And  ever  widening  slowly  silence  all. 

*  The  little  rift  within  the  lover's  lute, 
Or  little  pitted  speck  in  garner'd  fruit. 
That  rotting   inward   slowly  moulders 

all. 

*  It  is  not  worth  the  keeping :  let  it 

go: 
But  shall  it  ?  answer,  darling,  answer, 

no. 
And  trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all.' 

O   master,   do    you   love    ray    tender 
rhyme  t  " 


And  Merlin  look'd  and  half  believed 

her  true, 
So  tender  was  her  voice,  so  fair  her 

face, 
So   sweetly   gleam'd   her  eyes  behind 

her  tears 
Like   sunlight   on   the   plain  behind  a 

shower: 
And  yet  he  answer'd  half  indignantly  : 

"  Far  other  was  the  song  that  once  I 

heard 
By  this  huge   oak,  sung   nearly  where 

we  sit : 
For  here  we  met,  some  ten  or  twelve 

of  us,  [then 

To   chase  a  creature  that  was  current 
In   these   wild   woods,  the  hart    with 

golden  horns. 
It  was  the  time  when  first  the  question 

rose 
About  the  founding  of  a  Table  Round. 
That  was  to  be,  for  love  of   God  and 

men 
And  noble  deeds,  the  flower  of  all  the 

world. 
And  each  incited  each  to  noble  deeds. 
And  while  we  waited,  one,  the  youngest 

of  us. 
We  could  not  keep  him  silent,  out  he 

flash'd, 
And   into  such   a   song,  such  fire  for 

fame. 
Such   trumpet-blowings  in    it,   coming 

down 
To  such  a  stern  and  iron-clashing  close. 
That  when  he   stopt  we  long'd  to  hurl 

together. 
And   should   have   done   it ;    but    the 

beauteous  beast 
Scared  by  the  noise  upstarted  at  our 

feet, 
And  like  a  silver  shadow  slipt  away 
Thro'  the  dim  land;  and  all  day  long 

we  rode 
Thro'  the  dim  land  against  a  rushing 

wind. 
That  glorious  roundel  echoing  in  our 

ears, 
And  chased  the   flashes  of  his  goldeo 

horns 


292 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


Until  they  vanish'd  by  the  fairy  well 
That   laughs  at  iron — as  our  warriors 

did— 
Where   children    cast   their   pins   and 

nails,  and  cry, 
**  Laugh  little  well,"  but  touch  it   with 

a  sword, 
It  buzzes  wildly  round  the  point ;  and 

there 
We  lost  him:  such  a  noble  song  was 

that. 
But,  Vivien,  when  you  sang  me   that 

sweet  rhyme, 
I   felt   as   tho'  you   knew  this  cursed 

charm, 
Were  proving  it  on  me,  and  that  I  lay 
And  felt  them  slowly  ebbing,  name  and 

fame." 

And  Vivien  answer'd,  smiling  mourn- 
fully; 

"  O  mine  have  ebb'd  away  forever- 
more, 

And  all  thro'  following  you  to  this  wild 
wood. 

Because  I  saw  you  sad,  to  comfort  you. 

Lo  now,  what  hearts  have  men  !  t-liey 
never  mount 

As  high  as  woman  in  her  selfless  mood. 

And  touching  fame,  howe'er  you  scorn 
my  song 

Take  one  verse  more — the  lady  speaks 
it— this: 

*My  name,  once  mine,  now  thine,  is 

closlier  mine. 
For   fame,  could  fame   be  mine,  that 

fame  were  thine. 
And  shame,  could  shame  be  thine,  that 

shame  were  mine. 
So  trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all.' 

"  Says   she  not  well  "i    and  there  is 

more — this  rhyme 
Is  like  the  fair  pearl  necklace  of  the 

Queen, 
That  burst  in  dancing,  and  the  pearls 

were  spilt ; 
Some  lost,  some  stolen,  some  as  relics 

kept. 
But  nevermore   the   same    two   sister 

pearls 


Ran  down  the  silken  thread  to  kiss 

each  other 
On  her  wjiite  neck — so  it  is  with  thiss 

rhyme  ; 
It  lives  dispersedly  in  many  hands, 
And    evary   minstrel    sings   it   differ- 
ently ; 
Yet  there  is  one  true  line,  the  pearl  of 

pearls ; 
'Man  dreams  of  Fame  while  woman 

wakes  to  love.' 
True  :    Love,  tho'  Love  were  of  the 

grossest,  carves 
A  portion  from  the  solid  present,  eats 
And  uses,  careless  of   the  rest;    but 

Fame, 
The  Fame  that  follows  death  is  noth- 
ing to  us ; 
And  what  is  Fame  in  life  but  half-dis- 

fame, 
And  counterchanged  with  darkness  ? 

you  yourself 
Know  well  that  Envy  calls  you  Devil's 

son, 
And  since  you  seem  the  Master  of  all 

Art, 
They  fain  would  make  you  Master  o£ 

all  Vice." 

And  Merlin  lock'd  his  hand  in  hers 

and  said, 
"  I  once  was  looking  for  a  magic  weed, 
And  found  a  fair  young  squire  who 

sat  alone, 
Had  carved  himself  a  knightly  shield 

of  wood, 
And  then  was  painting  on  it  fancied 

arms. 
Azure,  an  Eagle  rising,  or,  the  Sun 
In  dexter  chief;  the  scroll  *I  follow 

fame.' 
And  speaking  not,  but  leaning  over 

him, 
I  took  his  brush  and  blotted  out  the 

bird, 
And  made  a   Gardener   putting  in  a 

graff. 
With  this  for  motto,  'Rather  use  than 

fame.' 
You  should  have  seen  him  blush;  but 

afterwards 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


293 


He     made     a     stalwart    knight.       O 

Vivien, 
For  you,  methinks  you  think  you  love 

me  well ; 
For  me,  I  love   you  somewhat :  rest : 

and  Love 
Should  have  some  rest  and  pleasure 

in  himself, 
Not  ever  be  too  curious  for  a  boon, 
Too  prurient  for  a  proof  against  the 

grain 
Of  him  you  say  you  love  :  but  Fame 

with  men, 
Being  but  ampler  means  to  serve  man- 
kind, 
Should  have  small  rest  or  pleasure  in 

herself, 
But  work  as  vassal  to  the  larger  love 
That  dwarfs  the  petty  love  of  one  to 

one, 
Use  gave  me  Fame  at  first,  and  Fame 

again 
Increasing  gave  me  use.     Lo,   there 

my  boon ! 
What  other  ?  for  men  sought  to  prove 

me  vile. 
Because  I  wish'd  to  give  them  greater 

minds ; 
And  then  did  Envy  call  me  Devil's 

son ; 
The  sick  weak  beast  seeking  to  help 

herself 
By  striking  at  her  better,  miss'd,  and 

brought 
Her  own  claw  back,  and  wounded  her 

own  heart. 
Sweet  were  the  days  when  I  was  all 

unknown. 
But  when  my  name  was  lifted  up,  the 

storm 
Broke  on  the  mountain  and  I  cared 

not  for  it. 
Right  well  know  I  that  Fame  is  half 

disfame, 
Yet  needs  must  work  my  work.     That 

other  fame. 
To  one  at  least,  who  hath  not  children, 

vague, 
The  cackle  of  the  unborn  about  the 

grave, 
I  cared  not  for  it ;  a  single  misty  star, 


Which  is  the  second  in  a  line  of  stars 

That  seem  a  sword  beneath  a  belt  of 
three, 

I  never  gazed  upon  it  but  I  dreamt 

Of  some  vast  charm  concluded  in  that 
star 

To  make  fame  nothing.  Wherefore, 
if  I  fear. 

Giving  you  power  upon  me  thro'  this 
charm, 

That  you  might  play  me  falsely,  hav- 
ing power. 

However  well  you  think  you  love  me 
now 

(As  sons  of  kings  loving  in  pupilage 

Have  turn'd  to  tyrants  when  they  came 
to  power) 

I  rather  dread  the  loss  of  use  than 
fame ; 

If  you — and  not  so  much  from  wicked- 
ness, 

As  some  wild  turn  of  anger,  or  a 
mood 

Of  overstrain'd  affection,  it  may  be. 

To  keep  me  all  to  your  own  self,  or 
else 

A  sudden  spurt  of  woman's  jealousy, 

Should  try  this  charm  on  whom  you 
say  you  love." 

And  "Vivien  answer'd,  smiling  as  in 

wrath : 
"  Have  I  not  sworn  ?   I  am  not  trusted. 

Good! 
Well,  hide  it,  hide  it ;  I  shall  find  it 

out; 
And  being  found  take  heed  of  Vivien. 
A  woman  and  not  trusted,  doubtless  I 
Might  feel'  some  sudden  turn  of  anger 

born 
Of  your  misfaith ;  and  your  fine  epithet 
Is  accurate  too,  for  this  full  love  of 

mine 
Without  the  full  heart,  back  may  merit 

well 
Your  term  of  overstrain'd.     So  used 

as  I, 
My  daily  wonder  is,  I  loved  at  all. 
And  as  to  woman's  jealousy,  O  why 

not  ? 
O  to  what  end,  except  a  jealous  one, 


294 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


And  one  to  make  me  jealous  if  I  love, 
Was  this  fair  charm  invented  by  your- 
self ? 
I  well  believe  that  all  about  this  world 
You  cage  a  buxom  captive  here  and 

there, 
Closed  in  the  four  walls  of  a  hollow 

tower 
From    which   is   no    escape    forever- 
more." 

Then  the  great  Master  merrily  an- 

swer'd  her ; 
"  Full  many  a  love  in  loving  youth  was 

mine, 
I  needed  then  no  charm  to  keep  them 

mine 
But  youth  and  love ;  and  that  full  heart 

of  yours 
Whereof  you  prattle,  may  now  assure 

you  mine; 
So  live  uncharm'd.      For  those  who 

wrought  it  first, 
The  wrist  is  parted  from  the  hand  that 

waved, 
The  feet  unmortised  from  their  ankle- 
bones 
Who  paced  it,  ages  back :  but  will  you 

hear 
The   legend   as   in  guerdon   for  your 

rhyme  ? 

"  There   lived   a  king   in   the    most 

Eastern  East, 
Less   old   than   I,   yet  older,   for  my 

blood 
Hath   earnest  in   it  of  far  springs  to 

be. 
A  tawny  pirate  anchor'd  in  his  port, 
Whose    bark   had    plunder'd    twenty 

nameless  isles ; 
And  passing  one,  at  the  high  peep  of 

dawn. 
He  saw  two  cities  in  a  thousand  boats 
All  fighting  for  a  woman  on  the  sea. 
And  pushing   his  black  craft  among 

them  all. 
He  lightly  scatter'd  theirs  and  brought 

her  off. 
With  loss  of  half  his  people  arrow- 
slain  : 


A  maid  so  smooth,  so  white,  so  won 
derful. 

They  said  a  light  came  from  her  when 
she  moved : 

And  since  the  pirate  would  not  yield 
her  up, 

The  King  impaled  him  for  his  piracy  ; 

Then  made  her  Queen  :  but  those  isle- 
nurtur'd  eyes 

Waged  such  unwilling  tho'  successful 
war 

On  all  the  youth,  they  sicken'd;  coun- 
cils thinn'd, 

And    armies    waned,  for  magnet-like 
she  drew 

The     rustiest     iron    of    old    fighters' 
hearts  ; 

And   beasts   themselves    would    wor- 
ship ;  camels  knelt 

Unbidden,  and  the  brutes  of  mountain 
back 

That  carr  kings  in  castles,  bow'd  black 
knees 

Of  homage,  ringing  with  their  serpent 
hands, 

To  make  her  smile,  her  golden  ankle- 
bells,  [sent 

What  wonder  being  jealous,  that  he 

His  horns  of  proclamation  out  thro' 
all 

The  hundred  under-kingdoms  that  he 
sway'd 

To  find  "a  wizard  who  might  teach  the 
King 

Some    charm,   which    being  wrought 
upon  the  Queen 

Might  keep  her  all  his  own :  to  such  a 
one 

He  promised  more  than  ever  king  had 
given, 

A  league  of  mountain  full  of  golden 
mines, 

A  province  with  a  hundred  miles  of 
coast, 

A  palace  and  a  princess,  all  for  him  : 

But  on  all  those  who  tried  and  fail'd, 
the  King 

Pronounced  a  dismal  sentence,  mean- 
ing by  it 

To  -keep  the  list  low  and  pretenders 
back, 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


295 


Or  like  a  king,  not  to  be  trifled  with — 
Their  heads  should   moulder  on   the 

city  gates. 
And  many  tried  and  fail'd,  because  the 

charm 
Of  nature  in  her  overbore  their  own  : 
And  many  a  wizard  brow  bleach'd  on 

the  walls  : 
And   many  weeks  a  troop  of  carrion 

crows 
Hung  like  a  cloud  above  the  gateway 

towers." 

And  Vivien,  breaking  in  upon  him, 

saM: 
"I   sit   and   gather   honey;    yet,   me- 

thinks, 
Your  tongue  has   tript   a   little :    ask 

yourself. 
The  lady  never  made  unwilling  war 
With  those  fine  eyes  :  she  had  pleasure 

in  it. 
And  made  her  good  man  jealous  with 

good  cause. 
And  lived  there  neither  dame  nor  dam- 
sel then 
Wroth  at  a  lover's  loss  .■*  were  all  as 

tame, 
I  mean,  as  noble,  as  their  Queen  was 

fair? 
Not  one  to  flirt  a  venom  at  her  eyes. 
Or  pinch  a  murderous  dust  into  her 

drink,  [rose  ? 

Or  make   her  paler  with  a  poison'd 
Well,  those  were  not  our  days;   but 

did  they  find 
A  wizard  ?    Tell  me,  was  he  like  to 

thee.?" 

She  ceased,  and  made  her  lithe  arm 

around  his  neck 
Tighten,  and  then  drew  back,  and  let 

her  eyes 
Speak  for  her,  glowing  on  him,  like  a 

bride's 
On  her  new  lord,  her  own,  the  first  of 

men. 

He   answer'd  laughing,  "Nay,  not 
like  to  me. 
At  last  they  found— his  foragers  for 
charms — 


A  little  glassy-headed  hairless  man, 
Who  lived    alone  in  a  great  wild  on 

grass  ; 
Read  but  one  book,  and  ever  reading 

grew 
So  grated  down  and  filed  away  with 

thought, 
So    lean    his   eyes   were    monstrous ; 

while  the  skin 
Clung   but   to  crate  and  basket,  ribs 

and  spine. 
And  since  he  kept  his  mind  on  one 

sole  aim. 
Nor  ever  touch'd  fierce  wine,  nor  ta-;ted 

flesh,  [wall 

Nor  own'd  a  sensual  wish,  to  him  the 
That  sunders  ghosts  and  shadow-cast- 
ing men 
Became  a  crystal,  and  he  saw  them 

thro'  it, 
And   heard   their   voices  talk  behind 

the  wall, 
And   learnt    their    elemental  secrets, 

powers 
And  forces;  often  o'er  the  sun's  bright 

eye 
Drew  the  vast  eyelid  of  an  inky  cloud, 
And  lash'd  it  at  the  base  with  slanting 

storm ; 
Or  in  the  noon  of  mist  and   driving 

rain, 
When  the  lake  whiten'd  and  the  pine- 
wood  rcar'd, 
And  the  cairn'd  mountain  was  a  shadow, 

sunn'd 
The  world  to  peace  again :  here  was 

the  man. 
And  so  by  force  they  dragg'd  him  to 

the  King. 
And  then  he  taught  the  King  to  charm 

the  Queen 
In  such  wise,  that  no  man  could  see 

her  more. 
Nor    saw    she    save    the   King,   who 

wrought  the  charm, 
Coming   and   going,    and   she   lay   as 

dead. 
And  lost  all  use  of  life  :  but  when  the 

King 
Made  proffer  of  the  league  of  goldci? 

mines, 


2g6 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


The  province  with  the  hundred  miles 

of  coast, 
The  palace  and  the  princess,  that  old 

man 
"Went  back  to  his  old  wild,  and  lived 

on  grass, 
And  vanish'd,  and  his  book  came  down 

to  me." 

And  Vivien  answer'd,  smiling  sauc- 
ily : 

"  You  have   the  book :   the  charm  is 
written  !n  it: 

Good :  take  my  counsel :  let  me  know 
it  at  once  : 

For   keep   it   like   a  puzzle   chest   in 
chest, 

"With  each  chest  lock'd  and  padlock'd 
thirty-fold, 

And  whelm  all  this  beneath  as  vast  a 
mound 

As  after  furious  battle  turfs  the  slain 

On  some  wild  down  above  the  windy 
deep, 

I    yet   should   strike   upon   a  sudden 
means 

To  dig,  pick,  open,  find  and  read  the 
charm : 

Then,  if  I  tried  it,  who  should  blame 
me  then  ? " 
And  smiling  as  a  Master  smiles  at 
one 

That   is   not   of  his   school,   nor   any 
school 

But  that  where  blind  and  naked  Ignor- 
ance 

Delivers     brawling     judgments,     un- 
ashamed, 

On    all   things   all   day    long,   he    an- 
swered her, 
"  You    read    the    book,  my    pretty 
Vivien! 

O  ay,  it  is  but  twenty  pages  long, 

But'every  page  having  an  ample  marge, 

And    every    marge    enclosing    in  the 
midst 

A  square  of  text  that  looks  a  little  blot, 

The  text  no  larger  than  the  limbs  of 
fleas; 

And  every  square  of  text  an    awful 
charm, 


Writ  in  a  language  that  has  long  gone 

by. 
So  long,   that  mountains   have  arisen 

since 
With  cities   on  their  flanks— ji7«  read 

the  book ! 
And  every  margin  scribbled,  crost  and 

cramm'd 
With  comment,  densest  condensation, 

hard 
To  mind  and  eye;  but  the  long  sleep- 
less nights 
Of  my  long  life  have  made  it  easy  to 

me. 
And  none  can  read  the  text,  not  even  I; 
And  none  can  read  the  comment  but 

myself; 
And   in   the   comment   did   I  find  the 

charm. 
O,  the  results  are  simple ;  a  mere  child 
Might  use  it  to  the  harm  of  any  one, 
And  never  could  undo  it ;  ask  no  more  : 
For  tho'  you  should  not  prove  it  upon 

me, 
But    keep   that   oath   you   swore,   you 

might,  perchance, 
Assay   it   on   some   one   of  the  Table 

Round, 
And  all  because  you  dream  they  babble 

ol  you." 

And  Vivien,  frowning  in  true  anger, 

said  : 
"What  dare  the  full-fed  liars  say   o£ 

me? 
They  ride   abroad  redressing    human 

wrongs ! 
They  sit  with  knife  in  meat  and  wine  in 

horn. 
They  bound  to  holy  vows  of  chastity ! 
Were  I  not  woman,  I  could  tell  a  tale. 
But  you  are  man,  you  well  can  under- 
stand 
The  shame  that  cannot  be  explain'd  for 

shame. 
Not  one  of  all  the  drove  should  touch 

me  :  swine  !  " 

Then  answer'd  Merlin  careless  of  her 
words, 
"  You  breathe  but  accusation  vast  and 
vague, 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KzNG. 


297 


Spleen-born,  I  think,  and  proofless.    If 

you  know, 
Set  up  the  charge  you  know,  to  stand 

or  fall !  " 

And  Vivien  answer'd,  frowning 
wrathf  ully : 

"  O  ay,  what  say  ye  to  Sir  Valence,  him 

Whose  kinsman  left  him  watcher  o'er 
his  wife 

And  two  fair  babes,  and  went  to  dis- 
tant lands;  [found 

Was  one  year  gone,  and  on  returning 

Not  two  but  three  :  there  lay  the  reck- 
ling, one 

But  one  hour  old  1  What  said  the 
happy  sire  ? 

A  seven  months'  babe  had  been  a  truer 
gift. 

Those  twelve  sweet  moons  confused 
his  fatherhood  ! " 

Then  answer'd   Merlin  :    "  Nay,    I 

know  the  tale. 
Sir  Valence  wedded  with   an  outland 

dame : 
Some   cause    had  kept   him    sunder'd 

from  his  wife : 
One  child  they  had  :  it  lived  with  her : 

she  died : 
His  kinsman  travelling  on  his  own  af- 
fair    • 
Was  charged  by  Valence  to  bring  home 

the  child. 
He  brought,   not   found  it   therefore : 

take  the  truth." 

*'  O  ay,"  said  Vivien,  "  overtrue  a 
tale. 

What  say  ye  then  to  sweet  Sir  Sagra- 
more, 

That  ardent  man  ?  *  to  pluck  the  flower 
in  season 

So  says  the  song,  '  I  trow  it  is  no  trea- 
son.' 

O  Master,  shall  we  call  him  overquick 

To  crop  his  own  sweet  rose  before  the 
hour.?" 

And  Merlin  answer'd:   "Overquick 
are  you 
^o  catch  a  lofty  plume  fall'n  from  the 
wing 


Of  that  foul  bird  of  rapine  whose  whole 

prey 
Is  man's  good  name  :  he  never  wronged 

his  bride. 
I  know   the   tale.     An   angry  gust   of 

wind 
Puff'd  out  his  torch  among  the  myriad' 

room'd 
And  many-corridor'd  complexities 
Of  Arthur's  palace  :  then  he  found  a 

door 
And  darkling  felt  the  sculptured  orna>. 

ment 
That  wreathen  found   it   made    it  seem 

his  own  ; 
And  wearied  out  made   for  the  couch 

and  slept, 
A    stainless    man    beside    a   stainless 

maid; 
And  either  slept,    nor   knew   of   othei 

there ; 
Till  the  high  dawn  piercing  the  royal 

rose 
In  Arthur's  casement  glimmer'd  chastel}! 

down, 
Blushing  upon  them  blushing,  and  at 

once 
Pie  rose   without   a  word   and  parted 

from  her  : 
But  when  the  thing  was  blazed  about 

the  court. 
The  brute  world  howling  forced  them 

into  bonds, 
And   as  it    chanced   they   are    happy, 

being  pure." 

"  O    ay,"  said    Vivien,    "  that    were 

likely  too. 
What  say  ye  then  to  fair  Sir  Percivale 
And   of  the   horrid  foulness  that  he 

wrought. 
The  saintly  youth,  the  spotless  lamb  of 

Christ, 
Or   some  black  wether  of  St.  Satan's 

fold. 
What,  in  the  precincts  of  the  chapel- 
yard, 
Among   the  knightly    brasses    of  the 

graves. 
And  by  the   cold   Hie   Tacets  of  thi 

dead  I  " 


298 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


And  Merlin  answer'd,  careless  of  her 

charge : 
*'  A  sober  man  is  Percivale  and  pure ; 
But  once  in  life  was  fluster'd  with  new 

wine ; 
Then  paced  for  coolness  in  the  chapel- 
yard, 
Where  one   of  Satan's  shepherdesses 

caught 
And   meant   to   stamp   him    with   her 

master's  mark; 
And  that  he  sinn'd,  is  not  believable  ; 
For,  look  upon  his  face  ! — but   if   he 

sinn'd, 
The   sin   that  practice  burns  into  the 

blood, 
And  not  the  one  dark  hour  which  brings 

remorse, 
Will  brand  us,  after,  of  whose  fold  we 

be: 
Or  else  were  he,  the  holy  king,  whose 

hymns 
Are  chanted  in  the  minster,  worse  than 

all. 
But  is  your  spleen  froth'd  out,  or  have 

ye  more  ? " 

And  Vivien  answer'd  frowning"  yet  in 

wrath  : 
'•  O  ay ;  what  say  ye  to  Sir   Lancelot, 

friend  ? 
Traitor  or  true  ?    that  commerce  with 

the  Queen, 
I  ask  you,  is  it  clamor'd  by  the  child, 
Or  whisper'd    in  the  corner?  do  you 

know  it?" 

To  which  he  answefM  sadly  :  "  Yea, 
I  know  it. 

Sir  Lancelot  went  ambassador,  at  first. 

To  fetch  her,  and  she  took  him  for  the 
King; 

So  fixt  her  fancy  on  him  :  let  him  be. 

But  have  you  no  one  word  of  loyal 
praise 

For  Arthur,  blameless  King  and  stain- 
less man  ? " 

She  answer'd  with  a  low  and  chuck- 
ling laugh: 
^  Him  ?  is  he  a  man  at  all,  who  knows 
and  winks  ? 


Sees  what  his  fair  bride  is  and  does, 
and  winks  ? 

By  which  the  good  king  means  to  blind 
himself. 

And  blinds  himself  and  all  the  Table 
Round 

To  all  the  foulness  that  they  work. 
Myself 

Could  call  him  (were  it  not  for  woman- 
hood) 

The  pretty,  popular  name  such  man- 
hood earns. 

Could  call  him  the  main  cause  of  all 
their  crime; 

Yea,  were  he  not  crown'd  king,  coward, 
and  fool." 

Then  Merlin  to  his  own  heart, 
loathing,  said  : 

'*  O  tl^ue  and  tender  I  O  my  liege  and 
king ! 

O  selfless  man  and  stainless  gentleman. 

Who  wouldst  against  thine  own  eye- 
witness fain 

Have  all  men  true  and  leal,  all  women 
pure; 

flow,  in  the  mouths  of  base  interpre- 
ters. 

From  over-fineness  not  intelligible 

To  things  with  every  sense  as  false  and 
foul 

As  the  poached  filth  that  floods  the 
middle  street, 

Is  thy  white  blamelessness  accounted 
blame ! " 

But  Vivien  deeming  Merlin    over- 
borne 
By  instance,  recommenced,  and  let  her 

tongue 
Rage   like   a   fire  among    the   noblest 

names, 
Polluting,  and  imputing  her  whole  self. 
Defaming  and  defacing,  till  she  left 
Not  even  Lancelot  brave,  nor  Galahad 
clean. 

Her  words  had  issue  other  than  she 

will'd. 
He  dragg'd  his  eyebrow  bushes  down, 

and  made 
A  snowy  penthouse  for  his  hollow  eye^ 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


•99 


And  mutter'd  in  himself,  "  Tell  her\\\^ 

charm  ! 
So,  if  she  had  it,  would  she  rail   on  me 
To  snare  the    next,  and  if  she  have  it 

not,  ^ 
So  will  she  rail.     What  did  the  wanton 

say  ' 
>t  mc 

sink  as  low 
For  men  at  most  differ  as  Heaven  and 

earth. 
But  women,  worst  and  best,  as  Heaven 

and  Hell. 
I  know  the  Table  Round,  my  friends  of 

old; 
All   brave,    and  many    generous,  and 

some  chaste. 
I  think  she  cloaks  the  wounds  of  loss 

with  lies ; 
"x   do  believe  she  tempted  them  and 

fail'd, 
She   is   so  bitter  :  for  fine  plots  may 

fail, 
Tho'  harlots  paint  their  talk  as  well  as 

face 
With  colors  of  the  heart  that  are  not 

theirs. 
I  will  not  let  her  know* :  nine  tithes  of 

times 
Face-flatterers  and  backbiters  are  the 

same. 
And  they,  sweet  soul,  that  most  impute 

a  crime 
Are   pronest  to  it,  and  impute  them- 
selves. 
Wanting  the  mental  rage ;  or  low  de- 
sire 
Not  to  feel   lowest  makes  them  level 

all: 
Yea,  they  would  pare  the  mountain  to 

the  plain, 
To   leave  an  equal   baseness ;  and  in 

this 
Are  harlots  like  the  crowd,  that  if  they 

find 
Some  stain  or  blemish  in  a  name  of 

note. 
Not  grieving  that  their  greatest  are  so 

small, 
(inflate  themselves  with  some  insane  de- 
light, 


And  judge  all  nature  from  her  feet  of 
clay, 

Without  the  will  to  lift  their  eyes,  and 
see 

Her  godlike  head  crown'd  with  spirit- 
ual fire, 

And  touching  other  worlds.  I  am 
weary  of  her." 

He  spoke  in  words  part  heard,  in 

whispers  part. 
Half-suffocated  in  the  hoary  fell 
And  many-winter'd  fleece  of  throat  and 

chin. 
But  Vivien,  gathering  somewhat  of  his 

mood, 
And  hearing"  harlot  "mutter'd  twice  or 

thrice, 
Leapt  from  her  session  on  his  lap,  and 

stood 
Stiff    as   a   viper   tfrozen :    loathsome 

sight,  [love. 

How   from  the   rosy   lips  of  life    and 
Flash'd  the    barvi-grinning  skeleton   of 

death ! 
White  was  her  cheek  ;  sharp  breaths  of 

anger  puff'd 
Her  fairy  nostril  out ;  her  hand  ha^f- 

cleuch'd 
Went  faltering  sideways  downward  to 

her  belt, 
And  feeling ;  had  she  found  a  dagger 

there 
(For  in   a  wink  the  false  love  turns  to 

hate) 
She  would  have  stabb'd   him ;  but  she 

found  it  not : 
His  eye  was   calm,  and  suddenly  she 

took 
To  bitter  weeping  like  a  beaten  child, 
A  long,  long  weeping,  not  consolable. 
Then  her  false  voice  made  way  broken 

with  sobs. 

"  O  crueller  than  was   ever  told  in 

tale, 
Or  sung   in   song  !     O  vainly  lavish'd 

love  ! 
O   cruel,   there   was  nothing   wild    oi 

strange. 
Or  seeming  shameful,  for  what  shame 

in  love, 


■6°o 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


So  love  be  true,  and  not  as  yours  is — 

nothing 
Poor  Vivien  had  not  done  to  win  his 

trust 
Who  call'd  her  what  he  call'd  her — 

all  her  crime, 
All — all — the  wish  to  prove  him  wholly 

hers." 

She  mused  a  little,  and  then  clapt 
her  hands 

Together  with  a  wailing  shriek,  and 
said : 

*'  Stabb'd  through  the  heart's  affec- 
tions to  the  heart ! 

Seeth'd  like  the  kid  ia  its  own  mother's 
milk! 

Kill'd  with  a  word  worse  than  a  life  of 
-     blows ! 

I  thought  that  he  was  gentle,  "being 
great : 

0  God,  that   I   had  loved   a   smaller 

man  ! 

1  should  have  found  in  him  a  greater 

heart.  '  [saw 

O,  I,  that   flattering  my  true  passion. 
The  knights,  the  court,  the  king,  dark 

in  your  light, 
Who  loved  to  make  men  darker  than 

they  are, 
Because  of  that  high  pleasure  which  I 

had 
To  seat  you  sole  upon  my  pedestal 
Of  worship — I  am  answer'd,  and  hence- 
forth 
The    course   of    life    that   seem'd    so 

flowery  to  me 
With  you  for  guide  and  master,  only 

you, 
Becomes  the  sea-cliff  pathway  broken 

short. 
And  ending  in  a  ruin — nothing  left, 
But  into  some  low  cave  to  crawl,  and 

there. 
If  the  wolf  spare   me,  weep  my  life 

away, 
Kill'd  with  inutterable  unkindliness." 

She   paused,   she   turn'd   away,  she 
hung  her  head, 
The  snake  of  gold  slid  from  her  hair, 
the  braid 


Slipt    and    uncoil'd    itself,   she    wept 

afresh, 
And  the  dark  wood  grew  darker  to« 

ward  the  storm 
In  silence,  while  his  anger  slcy^vly  died 
Within  him,  till  he  let  his  wisdom  go 
For  ease  of  heart,  and   half  believed 

her  true  : 
Call'd  her  to  shelter  in  the  hollow  oak, 
"  Come  from  the  storm,"  and  having 

no  reply, 
Gazed  at  the  heaving  shoulder,  and  the 

face 
Hand-liidden,  as  for  utmost  grief  or 

shame  ; 
Then    thrice    essay'd,    by     tenderest- 

touching  terms 
To  sleek  her  ruffled  peace  of  mind,  in 

vain. 
At  last  she  let  herself  be  conquer'd  by 

him, 
And  as  the   cageling  newly  flown  re- 
turns, 
The     seeming-injured     simple-hearted 

thing 
Came  to  her  old  perch  back,  and  set- 
tled there. 
There  while  she  sat,  half-falling  from. 

his  knees, 
Half-nestled  at  his  heart,  and  since  he 

saw 
The  slow  tear  creep  from  her  closed 

eyelid  yet. 
About   her,  more  in  kindness  than  in 

love,  [arm. 

The    gentle   wizard    cast   a   shielding 
But  she  dislink'd  herself  at  once  and 

rose, 
Iler  arms  upon' her  breast  across,  and 

stood 
A      virtuous       gentlewoman      deeply 

wrong' d. 
Upright  and  flush'd  before  him ;  then 

she  said : 
"  There  must  be  now  no  passages  o£ 

love 
Betwixt  us  twain  henceforward  ever" 

more. 
Since,  if  I  be  what  I  am  grossly  call'd, 
What  should  be  granted  which  youi 

own  gross  heart 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


301 


"Would   reckon  worth   the   taking  ?    I 

will  go. 
In   truth,  but   one    thing   now — better 

have  died 
Thrice  than  have  ask'd  it  once — could 

make  me  stay — 
That  proof  of  trust — so  often  asked  in 

vain  I 
How  justly,   after    that  vile   term   of 

yours, 
I  find  with  grief !    I  might  believe  you 

then, 
Who   knows  ?    once   more.     O,   what 

was  once  1 0  me 
Mere   matter   of  the   fancy,  now   has 

grown 
The  vast  necessity  of  heart  and  life. 
Farewell :    think  kindly  of  me,  for  I 

fear 
My  fate  or  fault,  omitting  gayer  youth 
For  one  so  old,  must  be  to  love  you 

still. 
But  ere  I  leave  you  let  me  swear  once 

more 
That  if  I  schemed  against  your  peace 

in  this. 
May  yon  just  heaven,  that  darkens  o'er 

me,  send    - 
One  flash,  that,  missing  all  things  else, 

may  make 
!My  scheming  brain  a  cinder,  if  I  He." 

Scarce  had  she  ceased,  when  out  of 

heaven  a  bolt 
(For  now  the  storm  was  close  above 

them)  struck. 
Furrowing  a  giant  oak,  and  javelining 
With  darted   spikes   and  splinters  of 

the  wood 
The  dark  earth  round.     He  raised  his 

eyes  and  saw 
The  tree  that  shone  white-listed  thro' 

the  gloom. 
But  Vivien,  fearing  heaven  had  heard 

her  oath. 
And    dazzled    by   the    livid-flickering 

fork, 
And    deafen'd   with    the    stammering 

cracks  and  claps 
That  follow'd,  flying  back  and  crying 

out, 


"  O  Merlin,  tho'  you  do  not  love  me, 

save, 
Yet   save   me  !"    clung    to   him    and 

hugg'd  him  close  : 
And  call'd  him  dear  protector  in  her 

fright. 
Nor   yet   forgot   her    practice   in   her 

fright, 
But  wrought  upon  his  mood  and  hugg'd 

him  close. 
The  pale  blood  of  the  wizard  at  her 

touch 
Took  gayer  colors,  like  an  opal  warm'd 
She  blamed  herself  for  telling  hearsay- 
tales  : 
She  shook  from  fear,  and  for  her  fault 

she  wept 
Of  petulancy ;    she  call'd  him  lord  and 

liege. 
Her  seer,  her  bard,  her  silver  star  o£ 

eve. 
Her   God,  her   Merlin,  the   one   pas- 
sionate love 
Of  her  whole  life  ;  and  ever  overhead 
Bellow'd  the  tempest,  and  the  rotten 

branch 
Snapt  in  the  rushing  of  the  river-rain 
Above  them ;  and  in  change  of  glare 

and  gloom 
Her  eyes  and  neck  glittering  went  and 

came ; 
Till  now  the  storm,  its  burst  of  passion 

spent, 
Moaning    and    calling    out    of    other 

lands. 
Had   left   the   ravaged   woodland  yet 

once  more 
To  peace ;  and  what  should  not  have 

been  had  been, 
For  Merlin,  overtalk'd  and  overworn, 
Had  yielded,  told  her  all  the  charm, 

and  slept. 

Then,  in  one  moment,  she  put  forth 
the  charm 
Of  woven  paces  and  of  waving  hands. 
And  in  the  hollow  oak  he  lay  as  dead, 
And  lost  to  life  and  use  and  name  and 
fame. 
Then  crying  "  I  have  made  his  glory 
mine," 


302 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


And    shrieking    out    "  O   fool ! "    the 

harlot  leapt 
Adown  the  forest,  and  the  thicket  closed 
Behind  her,    and    the    forest    echo'd 

"fool." 


ELAINE. 

Elaine  the  fair,  Elaine  the  lovable, 
Elaine,  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat, 
High  in  her  chamber  up  a  tower  to  the 

east 
Guarded  the  sacred  shield  of  Lancelot; 
Which  first  she   placed  where  morn- 
ing's earliest  ray 
Might   strike  it,  and  awake  her  with 

the  gleam  ; 
Then  fearing  rust  or  soilure,  fashion'd 

for  it 
A  case  of  silk,  and  braided  thereupon 
All  the  devices  blazon'd  on  the  shield 
In  their  own  tinct,  and  added,  of  her 

wit, 
A  border  fantasy  of  branch  and  flower, 
And  yellow-throated    nestling   in   the 

nest. 
Nor  rested  thus   content,  but  day  by 

day 
Leaving  her  household  and  good  father 

climb'd 
That  eastern  tower,  and  entering  barr'd 

her  door, 
Stript  off  the  case,  and  read  the  naked 

shield. 
Now  guess'd  a  hidden  meaning  in  his 

arms, 
Now  made  a  pretty  history  to  herself 
Of  every  dint  a  sword  had  beaten  in 

it, 
And  every  scratch  a  lance  had  made 

upon  it, 
Conjecturing   when   and   where  :    this 

cut  is  fresh; 
That  ten  years  back ;  this  dealt  him  at 

Caerlyle; 
That  at  Caerleon;  this  at  Camelot : 
And  ah,  God's  mercy,  what  a  stroke 

was  there  ! 
And   here   a  thrust  that  might   have 

kill'd,  but  God 


Broke  the  strong  lance,  and  roll'd  hi| 

enemy  down. 
And  savdd  him  •  so  she  lived  in  fan« 

tasy. 

How  came  the  lily  maid  by  that  good 

shield 
Of  Lancelot,  she  that  knew  not  ev  'n 

his  name  ? 
He  left  it  with  her,  when  he  rode  \o 

tilt 
For  the  great  diamond  in  the  diamond 

jousts. 
Which  Arthur  had  ordain'd,  and   by 

that  name 
Had  named  them,  since  a  diamond  was 

the  prize. 

For  Arthur  when  none  knew  from 

whence  he  came. 
Long   ere   the   people   chose  him  for 

their  king, 
Roving  the  trackless  realms  of  Lyon- 

nesse, 
Had  found  a  glen,  gray  boulder  and 

black  tarn.  ^.yoj.'-  fsfV  ^ 

A   horror   lived   about   the   tarn,  and 

clave 
Like  its  own  mists  to  all  the  mountain 

side  : 
For  here  two  brothers,  one  a  king,  had 

met 
And  fought  together;  but  their  names 

were  lost. 
And  each  had  slain  his  brother  at  a 

blow, 
And  down  they  fell  and  made  the  glen 

abhorr'd  : 
And  there  they  lay  till  all  their  bones 

were  bleached, 
And  lichen'd  into  color  with  the  crags; 
And  he  that  once  was  king  had  on  a 

crown 
Of   diamonds,  one  in  front,  and  four 

aside. 
And  Arthur  came,  and  laboring  up  the 

pass 
All  in  a  misty  moonshine,  unawares 
Had   trodden    that    crown'd   skeleton 

and  the  skull 


^ 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


303 


Brake   from   the   nape,  and   from   the 

skull  the  crown 
RoU'd   into   light,  and   turning   on  its 

rims 
Fled   like  a  glittering   rivulet   to   the 

tarn  : 
And  down  the  shingly  scaur  he  plunged, 

and  caught, 
And  set   it   on   his   head,  and   in   his 

heart 
Heard   murmurs,  "Lo,  thou   likewise 

shalt  be  king." 

Thereafter,  when  a  king,  he  had  the 

gems 
Pluck'd  from  the  crown,  and  show'd 

them  to  his  knights, 
Saying  "These   jewels,  whereupon   I 

chanced 
Divinely,  are  the  kingdom's,  not  the 

king's — 
For  public  use  :  henceforward  let  there 

be, 
Once   every  year,  a  joust   for  one  of 

these  : 
For  so  by  nine  years'  proof  we  needs 

must  learn 
"Which  is  our  mightiest,  and  ourselves 

shall  grow 
In  use  of  arms  and  manhood,  till  we 

drive 
The    Heathen,  who,   some   say,   shall 

rule  the  land 
Hereafter,  which  God  hinder."     Thus 

he  spoke  : 
And  eight  years  past,  eight  jousts  had 

been,  and  still 
Had  Lancelot  won  the  diamond  of  the 

year, 
With  purpose  to  present  them  to  the 

Queen, 
When  all  were  won :  but  meaning  all 

at  once 
To  snare  her  royal  fancy  with  a  bQon 
Worth    half    her    realm,    had    never 

spoken  word. 

Now  for  the  central  diamond   and 
the  last 
And  largest,  Arthur,  holding  then  his 
court 


Hard  on  the  river  nigh  the  place  which 

now 
Is  this  world's  hugest,  let  proclaim  a 

joust 
At  Camelot,  and  when  the  time  drew 

nigh 
Spake  (for  she  had  been  sick)  to  Guine- 
vere, 
"  Are  you  so  sick,  my  Queen,  you  can- 
not move 
To   these   fair   jousts?"  "Yea,  loi'd," 

she  said,  "  you  know  it." 
"  Then   will   you   miss,"   he  answer'd, 

"  the  great  deeds 
Of  Lancelot,  and  his  prowess   in  the 

lists, 
A  sight  you  love   to  look   on."     And 

the  Queen 
Lifted   her  eyes,  and   they  dwelt   lan- 
guidly 
On   Lancelot,  where   he  stood  beside 

the  King. 
He  thinking  that  he  read  her  meaning 

there, 
"  Stay  with  me,  I  am  sick  ;  my  love  is 

more 
Than  many  diamonds,"  yielded,  and  a 

heart 
Love-loyal  to  the    least    wish   of  the 

Queen 
(However   much  he  yearn'd  to    make 

complete 
The  tale  of  diamonds  for  his  destined 

boon) 
Urged  him  to  speak  against  the  truth, 

and  say 
"  Sir   King,   mine    ancient    wound    is 

hardly  whole. 
And  lets  me  from  the  saddle ; "  and 

the  King 
Glanced  first  at  him,  then  her,  and  went 

his  way. 
No  sooner   gone    than   suddenly    she 

began  : 

"  To   blame,  my  lord    Sir  Lancelot 

much  to  blame. 
Why  go  you  not  to  these  fair  jousts  ? 

the  knights 
Are  half  of  them  our  enemies,  and  the 

crowd 


304 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING, 


Will  murmur,  lo  the  shameless   ones, 

who  take 
Their  pastime  now  the  trustful  king  is 

gone !  " 
Then  Lancelot,  vext  at  having  lied  in 

vain  : 
•'  Are   you    so   wise  ?    you    were   not 

once  so  wise. 
My   Queen,    that   summer,   when  you 

loved  me  first. 
Then  of  the  crowd  you  took  no  more 

account 
Than    of    the   myriad   cricket   of  the 

mead, 
tVhen   its   own   voice    clings   to   each 

blade  of  grass, 
A.nd   every  voice    is   nothing.     As  to 

knights. 
Them  surely  can  I  silence  with  all  ease. 
But  now  my  loyal  worship  is  allow'd 
Of  all    men:     many   a   bard,  without 

offence,  [lay, 

Has  link'd  our  names  together  in  his 
Lancelot,  the  flower  of   bravery,  Guin- 
evere, 
The  pearl  of  beauty  :  and  our  knights 

at  feast 
Have  pledged   us  in  this  union,  while 

the  King 
Would  listen  smiling.     How  then  ?  is 

there  more  .'' 
Has  Arthur  spoken  aught?   or  would 

yourself. 
Now  weary  of  my  service  and  devoir. 
Henceforth  be  truer  to    your  faultless 

lord  ?  " 

She  broke  into  a  little  scornful  laugh. 
"  Arthur,  my  lord,  Arthur,  the  faultless 

King, 
That   passionate  perfection,  mv  good 

lord- 
But   who   can  gaze   upon   the  Sun  in 

heaven? 
He   never  spake  word  of  reproach  to 

me. 
He   never  had  a  glimpse  of  mine  un- 
truth, 
He  cares  not  for  me :  only  here  to-day 
There  gleam'd  a  vague  suspicion  in  his 
eyes: 


Some   meddling   rogue    has    tamper'd 

with  him — else 
Rapt  in  this  fancy  of  his  Table  Round, 
And  swearing  men  to  vows  impossible, 
To  make  them  like  himself:  but,  friend, 

to  me 
He  is  aU  fault  who  hath  no  fault_at  all : 
Tor  wTioloves  mc  must  Iiave  a  toucli  of 

earth ; 
The  low  sun  makes  the   color ;  I  am 

yours, 
Not  Arthur's,   as  you   know,  save  by 

the  bond, 
And   therefore  hear  my  words :   go  to 

the  jousts : 
The   tiny-trumpeting   gnat   can  break 

our  dream 
When     sweetest ;      and     the     vermin 

voices  here 
May  buzz  so  loud — we  scorn  them,  but 

they  sting." 


Then  answer'd  Lancelot,  the  chief  of 

knights, 
"  And  with  what  face,  after  my  pretext 

made. 
Shall  I  appear,  O  Queen,  at  Camelot,  I 
Before   a   king   who    honors  his   own 

word, 
As  if  it  were  his  God's  ?  " 
^ ,  "  Yea,"  said  the  Queen, 

"  A   moral   child   without  tfie  craft  to 

rule, 
Else  had  he  not  lost  me :  but  listen  to 

me. 
If  I  must  find  you  wit  :  we  hear  it  said 
That  men  go  down  before  your  spear 

at  a  touch 
But  knowing  you  are   Lancelot;  your 

great  name. 
This  conquers:  hide  it   therefore i,-go- 

unknown  : 
Win  r  "by  this   kiss  you  will :   and  our 

true  king 
Will   then   allow  your  pretext,    O  my 

knight. 
As  all  ior  glory ;  for  to  speak  him  true, 
You  know  right  well,  how  meek  so  e'er 

he  seem, 
No  keener  hunter  after  glory  breathes. 


t 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


30s 


He  loves  it  in  his   knights  more   than 

himself: 
They  prove  to  him  his  work  :  win  and 

retm^n." 

Then  got  Sir  Lancelot  suddenly  to 

horse, 
Wroth   at   himself:  not   willing  to  be 

known, 
He  left  the  barren-beaten  thoroughfare. 
Chose  the  green  path  that  show'd  the 

rarer  foot, 
And  there  among  the  solitary  downs, 
Full  often  lost  in  fancy,  lost  his  way ; 
Till   as   he   traced   a    faintly-shadow'd 

track, 
That  all  in  loops  and  links  among  the 

dales 
Ran  to  the  Castle  of  Astolat,  he  saw 
Fired  from  the  west,  far  on  a  hill,  the 

towers. 
Thither  he  made  and  wound  the  gate- 
way horn, 
Then    came    an  old,    dumb,    myriad- 
wrinkled  man. 
Who  let  him  into  lodging  and  disarm'd. 
And  Lancelot  marvell'd  at  the  wordless 

roan ; 
And  issuing  found  the  Lord  of  Astolat 
With  two   strong  sons.  Sir  Torre  and 

Sir  Lavaine, 
Moving   to    meet    him    in    the   castle 

court' 
And  close  behind  them    stept  the   lily 

maid 
Elaine,   his  daughter:  mother    of    the 

house 
There  was  not :  some  light  jest  among 

them  rose 
With  laughter  dying  down  as  the  great 

knight 
Approach'd  them :    then  the    lord  of 

Astolat, 
"  Whence  comest  thou,  my  guest,  and 

by  what  name 
Livest  between  the   lips?  for  by   thy 

state 
And  presence  I  might  guess  thee  chief 

of  those. 
After  the   king,  who  eat   in  Arthur's 

halls. 


Him  have  I  seen :  the  rest,  his  Table 
Round, 

Known  as  they  are,  to  me  they  are  un- 
known." 

Then  answer'd  Lancelot,  the  chief  of 

knights, 
*'  Known   am  I,  and  of   Arthur's  hall, 

and  known. 
What    I    by    mere     mischance     have 

brought,  my  shield. 
But  since  I  go  to  joust  as  one  unknown 
At  Camelot  for  the   diamond,  ask  me 

not ; 
Hereafter  you  shall  know  me — and  the 

shield — 
I  pray   you  lend   me  one,  if  such   you 

have, 
Blank,  or  at  least  with  some  device  not 

mine." 

Then    said    the    Lord    of    Astolat, 

"Here  is  Torre's : 
Hurt  in  his   first  tilt  was  my   son,    Sir 

Torre. 
And,  so,  God  wot,  his  shield  is  blank 

enough. 
His  you  can  have."    Then  added  plain 

Sir  Torre, 
"  Yea  since  I  cannot  use  it,  you  may 

have  it." 
Here  laugh'd  the  father,  saying,  "  Fie, 

Sir  Churl, 
Is  that  an  answer  for  a  noble  knight  .-* 
Allow  him:  but  Layaiiig.  my  younger 

here,  "" 

He  is  so  full  of  lustihood,  he  will  ride 
Joust  for  it,  and  win,  and  bring  it  in  an 

hour 
And  set  it  in  this  damsel's  golden  hair 
To  make  her   thrice   as  wilful  as  be- 
fore." 

"  Nay,  father,  nay,  good  father,  shame 

me  not 
Before  this  noble  knight,"  said  young 

Lavaine, 
"  For  nothing.     Surely  I  but  play'd  on 

Torre  : 
He  seem'd  so  sullen,  vext  he  could  not 

go: 


3o6 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


A    jest,  no    more  ;    for,    knight,    the 

maiden  dreamt 
That  some  one  put  this  diamond  in  her 

hand, 
And  that  it  was  too  slippery  to  be  held, 
And  slipt  and  fell  into  some   pool  or 

stream, 
The  castle-well,  belike  :  and  then  I  said 
That  if\  went  and  if\  fought  and  won 

it 
{But  all  was  jest  and  joke  among  our- 
selves) 
Then  must  she  keep  it  safelier.     All 

was  jest. 
But  father  give  me  leave,  an  if  he  will. 
To   ride  to   Camelot  with   this  noble 

knight : 
Win  shall  I  not,  but  do  my  best  to  win  : 
Young  as  I  am,  yet  would  I   do  my 

best." 

"  So  you  will  grace  me,"  answer 'd 
Lancelot, 

Smiling  a  moment,  "  with  your  fellow- 
ship 

O'er  these  waste  downs  whereon  I  lost 
myself. 

Then  were  I  glad  of  you  as  guide  and 
friend ;  [hear, 

And  you  shall  win  this  diamond — as  I 

It  is  a  fair  large  diamond, — if  you  may, 

And  yield  it  to  this  maiden,  if  you 
will." 

"  A  fair  large  diamond,"  added  plain 
Sir  Torre, 

"  Such  be  for  Queens  and  not  for  sim- 
ple maids. "" 

Then  she,  who  held  her  eyes  upon  the 
ground, 

Elaine,  and  heard  her  name  so  tost 
about, 

Flush'd  slightly  at  the  slight  disparage- 
ment 

Before  the  stranger  knight,  who,  look- 
ing at  her, 

Full  courtly,  yet  ::ot  falsely,  thus  re- 
turn'd : 

"  If  what  is  fair  be  but  for  what  is  fair, 

And  only  Queens  are  to  be  counted  so. 

Rash  were  my  judgment  then,  who 
deem  this  maid 


Might  wear  as  fair  a  jewel  as  is  on 

earth. 
Not  violating  the  bond  of  like  to  like." 

He  spoke  and  ceased :  the  lily  maid 
Elaine, 

Won  by  the  mellow  voice  before  she 
look'd, 

Lifted  her  eyes,  and  read  his  linea- 
ments. 

The  great  and  guilty  love  he  bare  the 
Queen, 

In  battle  with  the  love  he  bare  his 
lord. 

Had  marr'd  his  face,  and  mark'd  it  ere 
his  time. 

Another  sinning  on  such  heights  with 
one, 

The  flower  of  all  the  west  and  all  the 
world,  T 

Had  been  the  sleeker  for  it :  but  in 
him 

His  mood  was  often  like  a  fiend,  and 
rose 

And  drove  him  into  wastes  and  soli- 
tudes 

For  agony,  who  was  yet  a  living  soul. 

Marr'd  as  he  was,  he  seem'd  the  good- 
liest man 

That  ever  among  ladies  ate  in  Hall, 

And  noblest,  when  she  lifted  up  her 
eyes. 

Ilowever  marr'd,  of  more  than  twice 
her  years, 

Seam'd  with  an  ancient  swordcut  on 
the  cheek. 

And  bruised  and  bronzed,  she  lifted  up 
her  eyes 

And  loved  him,  with  that  love  which 
was  her  doom. 

Then  the  great  knight,  the  darlirg 

of  the  court. 
Loved  of  the  loveliest,  into  that  rude 

hall 
Stept  with  all  grace,  and  not  with  half 

disdain 
Hid  under  grace,  as  in  a  smaller  time, 
But   kindly   man   moving    among    his 

kind  ; 
Whom  they  with  meats  and  vintageof 

their  IdcsI 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


307 


And   talk   and  minstrel  melody  enter- 
tain'd. 
And   much   they  ask'd   of  court   and 

Table  Round, 
And  ever  well  and  readily answer'd he: 
But    Lancelot,   when   they  glanced  at 

Guinevere, 
Suddenly  speaking    of    the   wordless 

man, 
Heard  from  the  Baron  that,  ten  years 

before. 
The  heathen  caught  and  reft  him  of  his 

tongue, 
"  He  learnt  and  warn'd  me  of  their 

fierce  design 
Against  my  house,  and  him  they  caught 

and  maim'd  ; 
But  I,  my  sons,  and  little  daughter  fled 
From  bonds  or  death,  and  dwelt  among 

the  woods        ^ 
By  the  great  river  in  a  boatman's  hut. 
Dull   days  were  those,  till  our  good 

Arthur  broke 
The  Pagan  yet  once  more  on  Badon 

hill." 

"  O   there,  good  Lord,  doubtless," 

Lavaine  said,  rapt 
By  all  the  sweet  and  sudden  passion  of 

youth 
Toward  greatness  in  its  elder,  "  you 

have  fought. 
O  tell  us  ;  for  we  live  apart,  you  know: 
Of    Arthur's    glorious    wars."      And 

Lancelot  spoke 
And  answer'd   him   at  full,  as   having 

been  [long 

"With  Arthur  in  the  fight  which  all  day 
Rang  by  the  white  mouth  of  the  violent 

Glem  ; 
And   in   the  four  wild  battles  by  the 

shore 
Of  Duglas ;  that  on   Bassa  ;  then  the 

war 
That  thunder'd  in  and  out  the  gloomy 

skirts 
Of  Celidon  the  forest ;  and  again 
By  castle  Gurnion,  where  the  glorious 

King 
Had  on  his  cuirass  worn  our  Lady's 

Head, 


Carved  of  one   emerald,  centred  in  a 

sun 
Of  silver    rays,   that   lighten'd  as  he 

breathed  ; 
And  at  Caerleon  had  he  help'd  his  lord« 
When  the  strong  neighings  of  the  wild 

white  Horse 
Set  every  gilded  parapet  shuddering ; 
And  up  in  Agned  Cathregonion  too, 
And   down   the  waste   saud-shores   of 

Trath  Treroit, 
Where  many  a  heathen  fell ;  "  and  on 

the  mount 
Of  Badon  I  myself  beheld  the  King 
Charge   at  the   head  of  all  his  Table 

Round, 
And  all  his   legions  crying  Christ  and 

him. 
And  break  them ;  and  I  saw  him,  after- 
stand 
High  on  a  heap  of  slain,  from  spur  to 

plume 
Red   as   the  rising  sun  with  heathen 

blood. 
And  seeing  me,  with  a  great  voice  he 

cried, 
'  They  are  broken,  they  are  broken,'  for 

the  King, 
However  mild  he  seems  at  home,  nor 

cares 
For   triumph   in   our  mimic  wars,  the 

jousts — 
For  if  his  own  knight  cast  him  down,  he 

laughs 
Saying,  his  knights  are  bettor  men  than 

he — 
Yet  in  this  heathen  war  the  fire  of  God 
Fills  him  ;  I  never  saw  his  like  ;  there 

lives 
No  greater  leader." 

While  he  utter'd  this, 
Low  to  her  own  heart  said  the  lily 

maid, 
"  Save  your  great  self,  fair  lord ;  "  and 

when  he  fell 
From  talk  of  war  to  traits  of  pleasantry 
Being  mirthful  he  but  in  a  stately  kind — 
She  still  took  note  that  when  the  living 

smile 
Died  from  his  lips,  across  him  came  a 

cloud 


3o5 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


Of    melancholy    severe,    from   which 

again, 
Whenever  in  her  hovering  to  and  fro 
The  lily  maid  had  striven  to  make  him 

cheer, 
There  brake  a  sudden-beaming  tender- 
ness 
Of  manners  and  of  nature  :  and  she 

thought 
Tliat  all  was  nature,  all,  perchance,  for 

her, 
And  all  night  long  his  face  before  her 

lived. 
As  when  a  painter,  poring  on  a  face, 
Divinely  thro'  all  hinderance  finds  the 

man 
Behind   it,  and  so  paints  him  that  his 

face, 
The  shape  and  color  of  a  mind  and  life. 
Lives  for  his  children,  ever  at  its  best 
And   fullest ;  so  the   face   before    her 

lived,  ^  [full 

Dark-splendid,  speaking  in  the  silence, 
Of  noble  things,  and  held  her  from  her 

sleep. 
Till  rathe  she  rose,  half-cheated  in  the 

thought 
She  needs  must  bid  farewell  to  sweet 

Lavaine. 
First  as  in  fear,  step  after  step,  she 

stole, 
Down  the  long  tower-stairs,  hesitating  : 
Anon,  she  heard   Sir   Lancelot  cry  in 

the  court, 
"  This  shield,  my  friend,  where  is  it  ?  " 

and  Lavaine 
Past  inward,  as  she  came  from  out  the 

tower. 
There  to  his  proud   horse    Lancelot 

turn'd,  and  smooth'd 
The  glossy  shoulder,  humming  to  him- 
self. 
Half-envious  of  the  flattering  hand,  she 

drew 
Nearer  and  stood.      He   look'd,   and 

more  amazed 
Than  if  seven  men  had  set  upon  him, 

saw 
\The  maiden  standing  in  the  dewy  light. 
\He  had  not  dreamed  she  was  so  beauti- 
i       fill. 


Then  came  on  him  a  sort  of  sacred  fear, 
For  silent,   tho'   he   greeted  her,  she 

stood 
Rapt  on  his  face  as  if  it  were  a  God's. 
Suddenly  flashed  on  her  a  wild  desire, 
That  he  should  wear   her   favor  at  the 

tilt. 
She  braved  a  riotous  heart   in  asking 

for  it. 
"  Fair  lord,  whose  name  I  know  not — 

noble  it  is, 
I  well   believe,  the  noblest — will  you 

wear 
My  favor  at  this  tourney  ? "  "  Nay," 

said  he, 
"  Fair  lady,   since  I  never  yet  have 

worn 
P'avor  of  any  lady  in  the  lists. 
Such  is  my  wont,^^^s  those,  who  know 

me,  know." 
"  Yea,   so,"  she  answer'd ;   "  then  in 

wearing  mine 
Needs  must  be  lesser  likelihood,  noble 

lord, 
That  those  who  know  should  know 

you."     And  he  turn'd 
Her  counsel  up  and  down  within  his 

mind. 
And    found    it    true,    and    answer'd, 

"  True,  my  child. 
Well,  I  will  wear  it :  fetch  it  out  to  me : 
What  is  it  ?  "  and  she  told  him  "  a  red 

sleeve 
Broider'd  with  pearls,"  and  brought  it : 

then  he  bound 
Her  token  on  his  helmet,  with  a  smile 
Saying,   "  I  never  yet  have  done   so 

much 
For  any  maiden  living,"  and  the  blood 
Sprang  to  her  face,  and  fill'd  her  with 

delight ; 
But  left  her  all  the  paler,  when  Lavaine 
Returning  brought  the  yet  unblazon'd 

shield,  [celot, 

His  brother's  ;  which  he  gave  to  Lan- 
Who    parted    with    his    own   to  fair 

Elaine ; 
"  Do  me  this  grace,  my  child,  to  have 

my  shield 
In  keeping  till  I  come."    "  A  grace  ta 

me,' 


TDYLS  OF  THE  KIM^. 


309 


She  answer'd,  **  twice  to-day.  I  am  your 

Squire." 
Whereat       Lavaine     said,     laughing, 

"  Lily  maid, 
For  fear  our  people  call  you  lily  maid 
In   earnest,   let  me   bring  your  color 

back  ; 
Once,  twice,  and  thrice  :  now  get  you 

hence  to  bed  :  " 
So  kiss'd  her,  and  Sir  Lancelot  his  own 

hand. 
And  thus  they  moved  away :  she  stay'd 

a  minute. 
Then  made  a  sudden  step  to  the  gate, 

and  there — 
Her  bright  hair  blown  about  the  serious 

face  • 

Yet   rosy-kindled   with    her   brother's 

kiss — 
Paused  in  the  gateway,  standing  by  the 

shield 
In  silence,  while  she  watch'd  their  arms 

far  off 
Sparkle,   until  they    dipt    below    the 

downs. 
Then   to  her   tower   she  climb'd,  and 

took  the  shield. 
There  kept  it,  and  so  lived  in  fantasy. 

Meanwhile  the  new  companions  past 

away 
Far  o'er  the  long  backs  of  the  bushless 

downs, 
To  where   Sir    Lancelot  knew   there 

lived  a  knight 
Not   far  from  Camelot,  now  for   forty 

years 
A  hermit,  who  had  pray'd,  labor'd  and 

pray'd 
And  ever  laboring  had  scoop'd  himself 
In  the  white  rock  a  chapel  and  a  hall 
On  massive   columns,  like  ashorecliff 

cave, 
And  cells  and  chambers :  all  were  fair 

and  dry  ; 
The   green   light    from  the   meadows 

underneath 
Struck  up  and   lived   along  the  milky 

roofs ; 
And  in  the  meadows  tremulous  aspen- 
trees 


And   poplars   made   a  noise  of  falling 

showers. 
AiliLJJiithex  wending   there  that  night 

they  bode. 

But  when   the   next  day  broke  from 

underground, 
And   shot  red  fire  and  shadows  thro' 

the  cave, 
They  rose,  heard  mass,  broke  fast,  and 

rode  away: 
Then  Lancelot  saying,  "  Hear,  but  hold 

my  name 
Hidden,  you  ride  with  Lancelot  of  the 

Lake." 
Abashed  Lavaine,  whose   instant  rev- 
erence. 
Dearer  to  true  young  hearts  than  their 

own  praise, 
But  left  him   leave  to  stammer,  "  Is  it 

indeed  .?  " 
And  after  muttering  "the  great  Lance- 
lot " 
At  last  he  got  his  breath  and  answer'd, 

"  One, 
One  have  I  seen — that  other,  our  liege 

lord. 
The  dread  Pendragon,  Britain's  king  of 

kings, 
Of  whom  the  people  talk  mysteriously. 
He  will  be  there— then  were  I  stricken 

blind 
That  minute,  I   might  say  that  I   had 

seen." 

So  spake  Lavaine,  and  when  they 

reach'd  the  lists 
By  Camelot  in  the  meadow,  let  his  eyes 
Run    thro'  the   peopled  gallery  which 

half  round 
Lay  like  a  rainbow  fall'n  upon  the  grass, 
Until   they  found  the  clear-faced  King, 

who  sat 
Robed  in  red  samite,  easily  to  be  known, 
Since  to  his  crown  the  golden  dragon 

clung. 
And  down  his  robe  the  dragon  writhed 

in  gold. 
And  from  the  carven-work  behind  him 

crept 
Two  dragons  gilded,  sloping  down  to 

make 


310 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


Arms  for  his  chair,  while  all  the  rest 
of  them 

Thro'  knots  and  loops  and  folds  innu- 
merable 

Fled  ever  thro' the  woodwork,  till  they 
found 

The  new  design  wherein  they  lost 
themselves, 

Yet  with  all  ease,  so  tender  was  the 
work  : 

And  in  the  costly  canopy  o'er  him  set, 

Blazed  the  last  diamond  of  the  name- 
less king. 

Then  Lancelot  answer'd  young  La- 

vaine  and  said, 
"  Me  you  call  great  :  mine  is  the  firmer 

seat, 
The  truer  lance  :  but  there  is  many  a 

youth 
Now  crescent,  who   will  come  to  all  I 

am 
And   overcome   it;  and   in   me   there 

dwells 
No   greatness,  save   it  be  some  far-off 

touch 
Of   greatness   to  know  well  I  am  not 

great  : 
There   is    the    man."      And    Lavaine 

gaped  upon  him 
As  on  a  thing  miraculous,  and  anon 
The   trumpets  blew  ;    and    then    did 

either  side, 
They  that  assailed,  and  they  that  held 

the  lists. 
Set  lance  in  rest,  strike  spur,  suddenly 

move,  [ously 

Meet  in  the  midst,  and  there  so  furi- 
Shock,  that  a  man  far-off  might  well 

perceive, 
If  any  man  that  day  were  left  afield. 
The  hard  earth  shake,  and  a  low  thun- 
der of  arms. 
And  Lancelot  bode  a  little,  till  he  saw 
Which  were  the  weaker :  then  he  hurl'd 

into  it  [speak 

Against  the  stronger  :    little  need  to 
Of  Lancelot  in  his  glory  :  King,  duke, 

earl. 
Count,  baron — whom  he  smote,  he  over- 
threw. 


But  in  the  field  were  Lancelot's  kith 

and  kin, 
Ranged   with  the   Table  Round   that 

held  the  lists, 
Strong  men,  and  wrathful  that  a  stran- 
ger knight 
Should  do  and  almost  overdo  the  deeds 
Of  Lancelot  ;  and  one  said  to  the  other, 

"Lo  ! 
What  is  he  ?    I  do  not  mean  the  force 

alone, 
The  grace  and  versatility  of  the  man — 
Is   it   not   Lancelot  !  "      "  When    has 

Lancelot  worn 
Favor  of  any  lady  in  the  lists  ? 
Not  such  his  wont,  as  we,  that  know 

^im,  know." 
"  How  then  ?  who  then  ?  "  a  fury  seized 

on  them, 
A  fiery  family  passion  for  the  name 
Of    Lancelot,    and   a  glory   one   with 

theirs. 
They  couch'd  their  spears  and   prick'd 

their  steeds  and  thus. 
Their  plumes  driv'n  backward  by  the 

wind  they  made 
In  moving,  all  together  down  upon  him 
Bare,  as  a  wild  wave  in  the  wild  North 

sea, 
Green-glimmering  towards  the  summit, 

bears,  with  all 
Its  stormy  crests  that  smote  against  the 

skies,  [bark, 

Down  on  a  bark,  and    overbears    the 
And  him    that  helms  it,  so  they  over- 
bore 
Sir  Lancelot   and  his  charger,  and  a 

spear 
Down-glancing  lamed  the  charger,  and 

a  spear 
Prick'd  sharply  his  own  cuirass,   and 

the  head 
Pierced  thro'  his  side,  and  there   snapt, 

and  remain'd. 

Then  Sir  Lavaine  did  well  and  wor- 

shipfuUy; 
He  bore  a  knight  of  old  repute  to  the 

earth. 
And  brought  his  horse    to    Lancelot 

where  he  lay. 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KTNG. 


3" 


He  up  the  side,  sweating  with  agony, 

got, 
But  thought  to  do  while  he  might  yet 

endure 
And  being  lustily  holpen  by  the  rest. 
His    party, — tho'  it  seemed   half-mir- 
acle 
To  those   he   fought   with — drave  his 

kith  and  kin. 
And  all  the  Table  Round  that  held  the 

lists. 
Back  to  the  barrier ;  then  the  heralds 

blew 
Proclaiming  his  the  prize,  who  wore 

the  sleeve 
Of  scarlet,  and  the  pearls  ;  and  all  the 

knights. 
His  party,  cried  "  Advance,  and  take 

your  prize 
The    diamond ; "    but    he    answer'd, 

"  Diamond  me 
No  diamonds !  for  God's  love,  a  little 

air  ! 
Prize  me  no  prizes,   for  my  prize  is 

death  ! 
Hence  will  I  and  I  charge  you,  follow 

me  not." 

He  spoke,  and  vanish' d   suddenly 

from  the  field 
With  young  Lavaine  into  the  poplar 

grove. 
^There  from  his  charger  down  he  slid, 

and  sat. 
Gasping  to  Sir  Lavaine,   "Draw  the 

lance-head  :  " 
"  Ah,   my  sweet  lord,  Sir   Lancelot," 

said  Lavaine, 
**  I  dread  me,  if  I  draw  it,  you  will  die." 
But  he,  "  I  die  already  with  it  :  draw — 
Draw  " — and  Lavaine  drew,  and  that 

other  gave 
A  marvellous  great  shriek  and  ghastly 

groan. 
And   half   his  blood  burst   forth,  and 

down  he  sank 
For  the  pure  pain,  and  wholly  swoon'd 

away. 
Then  came  the  hermit  out  and  bare 

him  in, 
There   stanch'd  his  wound  ;  and  there, 

in  daily  doubt 


Whether   to   live   or   die,   for  many  a 

week 
Hid  from  the  wide  world's  rumor  by 

the  grove 
Of  poplars  with  their  noise  of  falling 

showers, 
And  ever-tremulous  aspen-trees,  he  lay. 

But  on  that  day  when  Lancelot  fled 
the  lists. 

His  party,  knights  of  utmost  North  and 
West, 

Lords  of  waste  marches,  kings  of  deso- 
late isles, 

Came    round   their  great   Pendragon, 
saying  to  him, 

"  Lo,  Sire,  our  knight  thro'  whom  we 
won  the  day 

Hath  gone  sore  wounded,  and  hath  left 
his  prize 

Untaken,  crying  that  his  prize  is  death." 

"  Heaven  hinder,"  said  the  King,  "  that 
such  an  one. 

So  great  a  knight  as  we  have  seen  to- 
day— 

He  seem'd  to  me  another  Lancelot — 

Yea,    twenty    times    I    thought     hira 
Lancelot — 

He  must  not  pass  uncared  for.^  Q^v)^;ainy  „ 
rise, 

My  nephew,  and   ride  forth  and  find 
the  knight. 

Wounded  and  wearied,  needs  must  he 
be  near.  [horse. 

I  charge  you  that  you  get  at   once   to 

And,  knights  and  kings,  there  breathes 
not  one  of  you 

Will  deem  this  prize  of  ours  is  rashly 
given  : 

His  prowess  was  too  wondrous.     We 
will  do  him 

No  customary  honor  :  since  the  knight 

Came  not  to  us,  of  us  to  claim  the 
prize. 

Ourselves  will  send  it  after.     Where- 
fore take 

This  diamond,  and  deliver  it,   and  re- 
turn. 

And  bring  us  what  he  is  and  how  he 
fares, 

And  cease  not  from  your  quest,  until 
you  find." 


312 


IDYLS  OF  THE  Kiyc, 


So  saying,  from  the  carven  flOwer 

above, 
To  which  it  made  a  restless  heart,  he 

took, 
And  gave,   the   diamond:    then  from 

where  he  sat 
At   Arthur's  right,   with   smiHng  face 

arose, 
With  smiling  face  and  frowning  heart, 

a  Prince 
In  the   mid  might  and  flourish  of   his 

May,  ^ 

Gawain,'surnamed  The  Courteous,  fair 

and  strong. 
And   after     Lancelot,    Tristram,    and 

Geraint 
And   Lamorack,   a  good    knight,    but 

therewithal 
Sir  Modred's  brother,  of  a  crafty  house, 
Kor  often  loyal  to  his  word,  and  now 
Wroth  that  the  king's  command  to  sally 

forth 
In  quest  of  whom  he  knew  not,  made 

him  leave 
The  banquet:,  and  concourse  of  knights 

and  kings. 

So  all  in  wrath  he  got  to  horse  and 
went ; 

While  Arthur  to  the  banquet,  dark  in 
mood, 

Past,  thinking,  "  Is  it  Lancelot  who  has 
come 

Despite  the  wound  he  spake  of,  all  for 
gain 

Of  glory,  and  has  added  wound  to 
wound. 

And  ridd'n  away  to  die?"  So  fear'd 
the  King, 

And,  after  two  days'  tarriance  there,  re- 
turn'd. 

Then  when  he  saw  the  Queen,  em- 
bracing, ask'd 

*'  Love,  are  you  yet  so  sick  ? "  "  Nay, 
Lord,"  she  said. 

"  And  where  is  Lancelot  ?  "  The*/  the 
Queen,  amazed, 

"  Was  he  not  with  you  ?  won  he  not 
your  prize  ?  " 

•'  Nay,  but  one  like  him."  "  Why  that 
like  was  he." 


And  when  the  King  demanded  how  she 

knew, 
Said,  "  Lord,  no  sooner  had  you  parted 

from  us. 
Than  Lancelot  told  me   of  a   common 

talk 
That  men  went  down  before  his  speai 

at  a  touch. 
But   knowing   he   was   Lancelot ;    his 

great  name 
Conquer'd  ;    and    therefore  would   he 

hide  his  name 
From  all   men,  e'en  the  king,  and  to 

this  end 
Had  made  the  pretext  of  a  hindering 

wound. 
That  he  might  joust  unknown  of  all, 

and  learn 
If  his  old  prowess  were  in  aught  de 

cay'd  : 
And  added,  '  Our  true  Arthur,  when  he 

learns. 
Will  well  allow  my  pretext,  as  for  gain 
Of  purer  glory.' " 

Then  replied  the  King : 
"Far  lovelier  in   our  Lancelot   had  it 

been, 
In  lieu  of  idly  dallying  with  the  truth, 
To  have  trusted  me  as  he  has  trusted 

you. 
Surely  his   king    and    most    familiar 

friend 
Might  well  have  kept  his  secret.    True, 

indeed. 
Albeit  I  know  my  knights  fantastical, 
So  fine  a  fear  ir  our  large  Lancelot 
Must  needs  have  moved  my  laughter  ; 

now  remains  [kin— 

But  little  cause  for   laughter  :  his  own 
111  news,  my  Queen,  for  all  who  love 

him,  these  ! 
His   kith    and   kin,  not    knowing,   set 

upon  him  ; 
So  that  he  went  sore  wounded  from 

the  field : 
Yet  good  news  too  :  for  goodly  hopes 

are  mine 
That   Lancelot  is    no  more   a  lonely 

heart. 
He  wore,  against  his  wont,  upon  hi» 

helm 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


z-^z 


A  sleeve    of    scarlet,    broidered    with 

great  peails, 
Some  gentle  maiden's  gift." 

"  Yea,  lord,"  she  said, 
Your  hopes  are  mine,"  and  saying 

that  she  choked, 
And  sharply  turn'd  about  to  h]de  her 

face, 
Moved     to  her   chamber,    and    there 

flung  herself 
Down  on  the  great  King's  couch,  and 

writhed  upon  it,^ 
And  clench'd  her  fingers  till  they  bit 

the  palm, 
And  shriek'd  out  "  traitor  "  to  the  un- 

hearing  wall. 
Then  flash'd  into  wild  tears,  and  rose 

again, 
And  moved  about  her  palace,  proud  and 

pale. 

Gawain  the  while  thro'  all  the  region 

round 
Rode  with  his  diamond,  wearied  of  the 

quest,  [grove, 

Touch'd  at  all  points,  except  the  poplar 
And  came  at  last,  tho'  late,  to  Astolat  : 
Whom  glittering    in    enamell'd    arms 

the  maid 
Glanced  at,   and  cried,  '*  What   news 

from  Camelot,  lord  ? 
What    of    the    knight    with  the   red 

sleeve?"    "  He  won." 
"  I  knew  it,"  she  said.     "  But  parted 

from  the  jousts 
Hurt  in  the  side,"  whereat  she  caught 

her  breath. 
Thro'  her  own  side  she  felt  the  sharp 

lance  go; 
Thereon  she   smote   her  hand  :   well- 
nigh  she  swoon'd : 
And  while  he  gazed  wonderingly  at  her, 

came 
The  ioid  of  Astolat  out,  to  whom  the 

Prince 
Reported   who  he  was,  and  on  what 

quest 
Sent,  that  he  bore  the  prize  and  could 

not  find 
The  victor,  but    had    ridden    wildly 

round 


To  seek  him,  and  was  wearied  of  thq 

search. 
To  whom  the  lord  of  Astolat,  "Bide 

with  us. 
And    ride     no    longer    wildly,    noble 

Prince. 
Here  was  the  knight,  and  here  he  left  a 

•  shield; 
This  will  he  send  or  come  for :  further- 
more 
Our  son  is  with   him ;  we  shall   hear 

anon. 
Needs  must  we  hear."    To  this  the 

courteous  Prince 
Accorded  with  his  wonted  courtesy. 
Courtesy  with  a  touch  of  traitor  in  it, 
And  stay'd ;  and  cast  his  eyes  on  fair 

Elaine  : 
Where  could  be  found  face  daintier  ? 

then  her  shape 
From  forehead  down  to  foot  perfect- 
again 
From    foot    to    forehead    exquisitely 

turn'd  : 
"  Well— if  I  bide,  lo !  this  wild  flower 

for  me  ! " 
And  oft  they  met  among  the  garden 

yews. 
And  there  he  set  himself  to  play  upon 

her 
With  sallying  wit,  free  flashes  from 

height 
Above  her,  graces  of  the  court,  am 

songs, 
Sighs,  and  slow  smiles,  and  golden  elo- 
quence 
And  amorous  adulation,  till  the  maid 
Rebell'd    against    it,    saying    to   him, 

"  Prince, 
O  loyal  nephew  of  our  noble  King, 
Why  ask  you  not  to  see  the  shield  he 

left. 
Whence   you  might  learn   his  name? 

Why  slight  your  King, 
And  lose  the  quest  hie  sent  you  on,  and 

prove 
No  surer  than  our  falcctfi  yesterday, 
Who  lost  the  hern  we  slipt  him  at,  and 

went 
To  all   the  winds.?"     "Nay,  by  mine 

head,"  said  he, 


3^4 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


"  I  lose  it,  as  we  lose  the  lark  in  hea- 
ven, 

0  damsel,   in   the   light  of  your  blue 

eyes; 
But  an  you  will  it  let  me  see  the  shield." 
And  when  the  shield  was  brought,  and 

Gawain  saw 
Sir  Lancelot's  azure  lions,  crown'd  with 

gold. 
Ramp  in  the  field,  he  smote  his  thigh 

and  mock'd ; 
*'  Right  was  the  King  !   our  Lancelot ! 

that  true  man  !  " 
•'  And  right  was  I,"  she  answer'd  mer- 
rily, "  I, 
Who  dream'd  my  knight  the  greatest 

knight  of  all." 
**  And  if  /  dream'd,"    said    Gawain, 

"  that  you  love 
This  greatest  knight,  your  pardon  !  lo, 

you  know  it ! 
Speak  therefore  :  shall  I  waste  myself 

in  vain  ? " 
Full  simple  was  her  answer ;  "  What 

know  I .'' 
My  brethren  have  been  all  my  fellow- 
ship, 
And  I,  when  often  they  have  talk'd  of 

love, 
Wish'd  it  had  been  my  mother,  for  they 

talk'd, 
Meseem'd,  of  what  they  knew  not ;  so 

myself — 

1  know  not  if  I  know  what  true  love  is. 
But  if  I  know,  then,  if  I  love  not  him, 
Methinks   there   is  none   other  I  can 
\       love," 

"Yea,  by  God's  death," said  he,  "you 

love  him  well, 
But  would   not,  knew  you    what  all 

others  know. 
And  whom  he  loves."      "  So  be   it," 

cried  Elaine, 
And   lifted  her  fair  face  and  moved 

away  ; 
But  he  pursued  her  calling,  *'  Stay  a 

little! 
One  golden  minute's  grace :  he  wore 

your  sleeve  : 
Would  he  break  faith  with  one, I  may 

not  name  ? 


Must  our  true  man  change  like  a  leaf 

at  last .? 
May  it  be  so  ?  why  then,  far  be  it  from 

me 
To   cross  our  mighty  Lancelot  in  his 

loves ! 
And,  damsel,  for  I  deem  you  know  full 

well 
Where  your  great  knight  is  hidden,  let 

me  leave 
My  quest  with  you ;  the  diamond  also; 

here ! 
For  if  you  love,  it  will  be  sweet  to  giva 

it; 
And  if  he  love,  it  will  be  sweet  to  hav^ 

it 
From  your  own  hand ;  and  whether  ha 

loves  or  not, 
A  diamond  is  a  diamond.     Fare  you 

well 
A  thousand  times  ! — a  thousand  timeg 

farewell  I  [two 

Yet,  if  }ie  love,  and  his  love  hold,  wq 
May  meet  at  court  hereafter  :  there,  \ 

think, 
So  you  will  learn  the  courtesies  of  the 

court, 
We  two  shall  know  each  other." 

Then  he  gave, 
And  slightly  kiss'd  the  hand  to  which 

he  gave, 
The  diamond,  and  all  wearied  of  thft 

quest  [weni 

Leapt  on  his  horse,  and  carolling  as  ha 
A  true-love  ballad,  lightly  rode  away. 

Thence  to  the  court  he  past ;  there 

told  the  King 
What  the  King  knew,  "  Sir  Lancelot  is 

the  knight." 
And  added,  "  Sire,  my  liege,  so  much 

I  learnt ; 
But  fail'd  to  find  him  tho'  I  rode  all 

round 
The  region  ;  but  I  lighted  on  the  maid, 
Whose  sleeve  he  wore  ;  she  loves  him; 

and  to  her, 
Deeming  our  courtesy  is  the  truest  law, 
I  gave  the  diamond  :  she  will  render  it; 
For  by  mine  head  she  knows  his  hid 

ing  place." 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


315 


f he  seldom-frowning  King  frown'd, 
and  replied, 

*•  iVo  courteous  truly  I  you  shall  go  no 
more 

On  quest  of  mine,  seeing  that  you  for- 
get 

Obedience  is  the  courtesy  due  to 
kings." 

He  spake  and  pii.ted.  Wroth  but 
all  in  awe, 

For  twenty  strokes  of  tLa  blood,  with- 
out a  word, 

Linger'd  that  other,  staring  after  him  ; 

Then  shook  his  hair,  strode  off,  and 
buzz'd  abroad 

About  the  maid  of  Astolat,  and  her 
love. 

All  ears  were  prick'd  at  once,  all 
tongues  were  loosed  : 

*'  The  maid  of  Astolat  loves  Sir  Lance- 
lot, 

Sir  Lancelot  loves  the  maid  of  Asto- 
lat." 

Some  read  the  King's  face,  some  the 
Queen's,  and  all 

Had  marvel  what  the  maid  might  be, 
but  most 

Predopm'd  her  as  unworthy.  One  old 
dame 

Came  suddenly  on  the  Queen  with  the 
sharp  news. 

She,  that  had  heard  the  noise  of  it  be- 
fore. 

But  sorrowing  Lancelot  should  have 
stoop' d  so  low, 

Marr'd  her  friend's  point  with  pale 
tranquillity. 

So  ran  the  tale  like  fire  about  the 
court. 

Fire  in  dry  stubble  a  nine  days' wonder 
flared : 

Till  ev'n  the  knights  at  banquet  twice 
or  thrice 

Forgot  to  drink  to  Lancelot  and  the 
Queen, 

And  pledging  Lancelot  and  the  lily 
maid 

Smiled  at  each  other,  while  the  Queen 
who  sat 

With  lips  severely  placid  felt  the  knot 


Climb  in  her  throat,  and  with  her  feet 

unseen         ,. 
Crush'd  the  wild  passion  out  against 

the  floor 
Beneath  the  banquet,  where  the  meats 

became 
As  wormwood,  and  she  hated  all  who 

pledged. 

But  far  away  the  maid  in  Astolat, 

Her  guiltless  rival,  she  that  ever  kept 

The  one-day-seen  Sir  Lancelot  in  hef 
heart. 

Crept  to  her  father,  while  he  mused 
alone. 

Sat  on  his  ki.ee,  stroked  his  gray  face 
and  said, 

"  Father,  you  call  rue  wilful,  and  the 
fault 

Is  yours  who  let  me  have  my  will,  and 
now, 

Sweet  father,  will  you  let  nie  lose  my 
wits.?" 

"Nay,"  said  he,  "surely."  "Where- 
fore let  me  hence," 

She  answer'd  "  and  find  out  our  dear 
Lavaine." 

"You  will  not  lose  your  wits  for  dear 
Lavaine : 

Bide,"  answer'd  he  :  "  we  needs  must 
hear  anon 

Of  him,  and  of  that  other."  "  Ay,"  she 
said, 

"  And  of  that  other,  for  I  needs  must 
hence 

And  find  that  other,  wheresoe'er  he  be, 

And  with  mine  own  hand  give  his  dia- 
mond to  him. 

Lest  I  be  found  as  faithless  in  the 
quest 

As  yon  proud  Prince  who  left  the  quest 
to  me. 

Sweet  father,  I  behold  him  in  my 
dreams 

Gaunt  as  it  were  the  skeleton  of  him- 
self, \ 

Death-pale,  for  lack  of  gentle  maiden's/ 

aid.  y 

The  gentler-born  the  maiden,  the  moie 

bound. 
My  father,  to  be  sweet  and  serviceable 


316 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


To  noble  knights  in   sickness,  as  you 

know, 
"When  these  have  worn  their  tokens: 

let  me  hence, 
I  pray  you."    Then  her  father  nodding 

said, 
"Ay,  ay,  the  diamond:  wit  you  well, 

my  child, 
Right  fain  were  I  to  learn  this  knight 

were  whole. 
Being  our  greatest :  yea,  and  you  must 

give  it — 
And  sure  I  think  this  fruit  is  hung  too 

high 
For   any   mouth   to  gape   for   save  a 

Queen's — 
Nay,  I  mean  nothing  :  so  then,  get  you 

gone. 
Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  go." 

Lightly,  her   suit  allow'd,    she  slipt 

away. 
And  while  she  made  her  ready  for  her 

ride, 
Her  father's  latest  word  humm'd  in  her 

ear, 
"  Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  go," 
And  changed  itself  and  echoed  in  her 

heart, 
"  Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  die." 
But  she  was  happy  enough  and  shook 

it  off, 
As  we  shake  off  the  bee  that  buzzes  at 

us; 
And  in  her  heart  she  answer'd  it  and 

said, 
"  What  matter,  so  I  help  him  back  to 

life  ? " 
Then  far  away  with  good  Sir  Torre  for 

guide 
Rode  o'er  the  long  backs  of  the  bush- 
less  downs 
To  Camelot,  and  before  the  city-gates 
Came  on  her  brother  with  a  happy  face 
Making  a  roan  horse  caper  and  curvet 
For    pleasure    all    about   a  field    of 

flowers  : 
Whom  when  she  saw,  "  Lavaine,"  she 

cried,  "  Lavaine. 
How   fares  my  lord    Sir    Lancelot  ? " 

He  amazed, 


"  Torre  and  Elaine  !    why  here  .'*    Sif 

Lancelot ! 
How   know   you    my  lord's    name   is 

Lancelot .? " 
But   when  the   maid  had  told  him   all 

her  tale, 
Then  turn'cl  Sir  Torre,  and  being  in 

his  moods 
Left    them,   and   under    the    strange- 

statued  gate. 
Where    Arthur's   wars   were   render'd 

mystically, 
Past  up  the  still  rich  city  to  his  kin. 
His   own    far   blood,    which   dwelt  at 

Camelot ; 
And   her   I^avaine   across   the   poplar 

grove 
Led  to  the  caves :  there  first  she  saw 

the  casque 
Of  Lancelot  on  the  wall :  her  scarlet 

sleeve, 
Tho'  carved  and  cut,  and  half  the  pearls 

away, 
Stream'd  from  it  still ;  and  in  her  heart 

she  laugh'd, 
Because  he  had  not  loosed  it  from  hig 

helm. 
But  meant  once  more   perchance    ta 

tourney  in  it. 
And  when  they  gain'd  the  cell  in  which 

he  slept, 
His   battle-writhen   arms   and   mighty 

hands 
Lay   naked   on    the    wolfskin,   and   a 

dream 
Of  dragging   down  his  enemy    made 

them  move. 
Then  she   that  saw  him  lying  unsleek, 

unshorn,     '  [self. 

Gaunt  as  it  were  the  skeleton  of  him- 
Utter'd  a  little  tender  dolorous  cry. 
The  sound  not   wonted  in  a  place  so 

still 
Woke   the  sick  knight,  and  while  he 

roll'd  his  eyes 
Yet  blank  from  sleep,  she  started   to 

him,  saying, 
"  Your  prize  the  diamond  sent  you  by 

the  King  :  " 
His  eyes  glisten'd :  she  fancied  *'  is  U 

forme?" 


IDYLS  OF  TffE  KING. 


sn 


And  when  the  maid  had  told  him  all 

the  tale 
Of  King  and  Prince,  the  diamond  sent, 

the  quest 
Assign'd  to  her  not  worthy  of  it,  she 

knelt 
Full  lowly  by  the  corners  of  his  bed, 
And  laid  the    diamond  in   his    open 

hand. 
Her  face  was  near,  and  as  we  kiss  the 

child 
That  does  the  task  assign'd,  he  kiss'd 

her  face. 
At   once   she   slipt   like  water  to  the 

floor. 
"Alas,"     he     said,     "your    ride    has 

wearied  you. 
Rest  must  you  have"    "No  rest  for 

me,"  she  said ; 
/**  Nay,  for  near  you,  fair  lord,  I  am  at 

rest " 
What  might  she  mean  by  that  ?    his 

large  black  eyes. 
Yet  larger   thro'   his   leanness,    dwelt 

upon  her. 
Till  all  her  heart's  sad  secret  blazed 

itself 
In  the  heart's   colors  on   her   simple 

face; 
And  Lancelot  look'd  and  was  perplext 

in  mind, 
And  being  weak  in  body  said  no  more  ; 
But  did  not  love  the  color;  woman's 

love. 
Save   one,  he  not  regarded,   and    so 

turn'd 
Sighing,  and  feign'd  a  sleep  until  he 

slept. 

Then  rose  Elaine  and  glided  thro' 

the  fields. 
And  past  beneath  the  wildly-sculptured 

gates 
Far  up  the  dim  rich  city  to  her  kin ; 
There  bode  the  night :  but  woke  with 

dawn,  and  past 
Down   thro'  the   dim   rich  city  to  the 

fields. 
Thence  to  the  cave :  so  day  by  day  she 

past 
In  either  twilight  ghost-like  to  and  fro 


Gliding,  and  every  day  she  tended  him, 
And  likewise  many  a  night:  and  Lance- 
lot 
Would,  tho'  he  call'd  his  wound  a  little 

hurt 
Whereof  he  should  be  quickly  whole, 

at  times 
Brain-feverous  in  his  heat  and  agony, 

seem 
Uncourteous,  even  he :  but   the  meek 

maid 
Sweetly  forbore  him  ever,  being  to  him 
Meeker    than    any   child   to   a   rough 

nurse. 
Milder  than  any  mother  to  a  sick  child, 
And  never  woman  yet,  since  man's  first 

fall, 
Did  kindlier  unto  man,  but  her  deep 

love 
Upbore  her;  till  the  hermit,  skill'd  in 

all 
The  simples  and  the  science  of  that 

time,  , 

Told  him  that  her  fine  care  had  savedy 

his  life.  "" 

And  the  sick  man  forgot  her  simple 

blush, 
Would  call  her  friend  and  sister,  sweet 

Elaine, 
Would    listen    for    her    coming    and 

regret 
Her    parting  step,  and  held  her  ten- 
derly^ 
And  loved  her  with  all  love  except  the 

love 
Of  man  and  woman  when  they  love 

their  best 
Closest  and  sweetest,  and  had  died  the 

death 
In  any  knightly  fashion  for  her  sake. 
And   peradventure    had   he   seen   her 

first 
She   might   have  made  this  and  that 

other  world 
Another  world  for  the  sick  man  ;   but 

now 
The  shackles  of  an  old  love  straiten 'd 

him. 

His  honor  rooted  in  dishonor  stood, 
And  faith  unfaithful  kept  him  falsely 

true. 


■) 


3i8 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


Yet  the  great  knight  in  his  mid-sick- 
ness made 

Full  many  a   hply  vow   and  pure  re- 
solve. 

These,  as  but  born  of  sickness,  could 
not  live : 

For  when  the  blood  ran  lustier  in  him 
again, 

Full  often  the  sweet  image  of  one  face, 

Making    a   treacherous    quiet    in   his 
heart, 

Dispersed  his  resolution  like  a  cloud. 

Then  if  the  maiden,  while  that  ghostly 
grace 

Beam'd  on   his    fancy,  spoke,  he  an- 
swer'd  not, 

Or  short  and  coldly,  and  she  knew  right 
well 

What  the  rough  sickness  meant,  but 
what  this  meant 

She  knew  not,  and  the  sorrow  dimm'd 
\        her  sight, 

'And  drave  her  ere  her  time  across  the 
fields 

Far  into  the  rich  city,  where  alone 

She  murmur'd,  "Vain,  in  vain:  it  can- 
not be. 

He  will  not  love  me  :  how  then?  must 
I  die?" 

Then  as  a  little  helpless  innocent  bird, 

That  has  but  one  plain  passage  of  few 
notes,  [o'er 

Will  sing  the  simple  passage  o'er  and 

For  all  an  April  morning,  till  the  ear 

Wearies  to  hear  it,  so  the  simple  maid 

Went  half  the  night  repeating,  "  Must 
I  die?" 

And  now  to  right  she  turn'd,  and  now 
to  left, 

And  found  no  ease  in  turning  or  in 
rest; 

And   "him   or  death"   she  mutter'd, 
"  death  or  him," 

Again  and   like   a  burthen,  "  him  or 
death." 

But  when  Sir  Lancelot's  deadly  hurt 

was  whole, 
To  Astolat  returning  rode  the  three. 
There    morn  by  morn,   arraying   her 

sweet  self 


In  that  wherein  she  deem'd  she  look'd 

her  best, 
She  came  before  Sii  Lancelot,  for  she 

thought 
"  If  I  be  loved,  these  are  my  festal  robes, 
If  not,  the  victim's  flowers  before  he 

fall." 
And    Lancelot  ever    prest   upon  the 

maid 
That  she  should  ask  some  goodly  gift 

of  him 
For  her  own  self  or  hers;   "and  do 

not  shun 
To  speak  the  wish  most  near  to  your 

true  heart ; 
Such  service  have  you  done  me,  that  I 

make 
My  will  of  yours,  and  Prince  and  Lord 

am  I 
In  mine  own  land,  and  what  3  will 

I  can." 
Then  like  a  ghost  she  lifted  up  her 

face, 
But  like  a  ghost  without  the  power  to 

speak 
And  Lancelot  saw  that  she  withheld 
'  her  wish, 

And   bode  among    them   yet  a  little 

space. 
Till  he  should  learn  it ;  and  one  morn 

it  chanced 
He  found  her  in  among  the  garden 

yews, 
And  said,   "Delay  no  longer,   speak 

your  wish, 
Seeing  I  must  go  to-day:"  then  out 

she  brake  ; 
"  Going  ?  and  we  shall  never  see  you 

more. 
And  I  must  die  for  want  of  one  bold 

word." 
"  Speak :  that  I  live  to  hear,"  he  said, 

"  is  yours." 
Then  suddenly  and  passionately  she 

spoke : 
"  I  have  gone  mad.     I  love  you :  let 

me  die." 
"  Ah  sister,"  answer'd  Lancelot,  "what 

is  this  ? " 
And   innocently  extending   her  white 

arms. 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


319 


•*  Your  love,"  she  said,  "  your  love — to 

be  your  wife." 
And  Lancelot  answer'd,  "  Had  I  chos'n 

to  wed, 
I    had    been    wedded    earlier,    sweet 

Elaine : 
But  now  there  never  will  be  wife  of 

mine." 
•*  No,  no,"  she  cried,  '*  I  care  not  to  be 

wife,  [face. 

But  to  be  with  you  still,  to  see  your 
To  serve  you,  and  to  follow  you  thro'  , 
"      the  world." 
And    Lancelot    answer'd,   "Nay,  the 

world,  the  world,  j 

All  ear  and  eye,  with   such  a  stupid 

heart 
To  interpret  ear  and  eye,  and  such  a 

tongue 
To  blare  its  own  interpretation — nay, 
Full    ill    then    should    I    quit    your 

brother's  love, 
And    your    good    father's    kindness." 

And  shiS  said, 
*'  Not  to  be  with  you,  not  to  see  your 

face, 
Alas  for  \<\q.  then,  my  good  days  are 

done." 
•'  Nay,  noble  maid,"  he  answer'd,  "ten 
f        times  nay  ! 
'•This  is  not  love  :  but  love's  first  flash 

in  youth. 
Most  common :  yea,  I  know  it  of  mine 

own  self: 
And  you  yourself  will  smile  at  your 

own  oclf 
Hereafter,  when  you  yield  your  flower 

of  life 
I  To  one  more  fitly  yours,  not  thrice 

your  age : 
And  then  will  I,  for  true  you  are  and 

sweet 
Beyond  mine  old  belief  in  womanhood. 
More  specially  should  your  good  knight 

be  poor, 
)  Endow  you  with  broad  land  and  ter- 
/  ritory 

V  Even  to  the  hajf  my  realm  beyond  the 
^-       seas, 
60  that  would  make  you  happy  J  fur- 
thermore, 


Ev'n  to  the  death,  as   tho'  you  were 

my  blood, 
In  all  your  quarrels  will  I   be  your  ) 

knight. 
This  will  I  do,  dear  damsel,  for  your 

sake, 
And  more  than  this  I  cannot." 

While  he  spoke 
She  neither  blush'd  nor    shook,   but 

deathly  pale 
Stood  grasping  what  was  nearest,  then 

replied, 
"  Of  all  this  will  I  nothing ;  "  and  so 

fell,  \ 

And  thus  they  bore  her  swooning  to  } 

her  tower. 


Then  spake,  to  whom  thro'  those 

black  walls  of  yew 
Their    talk  had    pierced,  her  father^ 

"  Ay,  a  flash, 
I  fear  me,  that  will  strike  my  blossom 

dead. 
Too  courteous  are  you,  fair  Lord  Lan- 
celot. 
I  pray  you,  use  some  rough  discourtesy 
To  blunt  or  break  her  passion." 

Lancelot  said, 
"  That  were  against  me  ;  what  I  can  I 

will ; " 
And  there  that  day  remain'd,  and  to- 
ward even 
Sent  for  his  shield :  full  meekly  rose 

the  maid, 
Stript  off  the  case,  and  gave  the  naked 

shield ; 
Then,  when  she  heard  his  horse  upon 

the  stones, 
Unclasping  flung  the  casement  back, 

and  look'd  \ 

Down  on  his  helm,  from  which  herj 

sleeve  had  gone.  • 

And  Lancelot  knew  the  little  clinking 

sound: 
A.nd    she  by  tact  of    love  was  wel^ 

aware  \ 

That  Lancelot  knew  that  she  was  look-/ 

ing  at  him. 
And  yet  he  glanced  not  up,  nor  waved 

his  hand. 


320 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KTNG. 


Nor    bade    farewell,  but    sadly  rode 

away. 
This  was  the  one  discourtesy  that  he 

used. 

So  in  her  tower  alone  the  maiden 

sat : 
His  very  shield  was  gone:  only  the 

case, 
Her  own  poor  work,  her  emptv  labor, 

left. 
But  still  she  heard  him,  still  his  picture 

form'd 
And  grew  between  her  and  the  pic- 
tured wall. 
Then  came  her  father,  saying  in  low 

tones, 
"Have  comfort,"  whom  she  greeted 

quietly. 
Then  came  her  brethren  saying,  "  Peace 

to  thee. 
Sweet  sist-er,"  whom  she  answer'd  with 

all  calm. 
But  when    they    left    her  to    herself 

again, 
Death,  like  a  friend's  voice  from  a  dis- 
tant field 
Approaching  thro'  the  darkness,called ; 

the  owls 
Wailing  had  power  upon  her,  and  she 

mixt 
Her    fancies    with    the    sallow-rifted 

glooms 
Of  evening,  and  the  moanings  of  the 

wind. 

And  in  those  days  she  made  a  little 

song, 
And  caird  her  song  "The   Song  of 

Love  and  Death," 
And  sang  it :  sweetly  could  she  make 

and  sing. 

*'  Sweet  is  true  love,  tho'  given  in 
vain,  in  vain ; 
And  sweet  is  death  who  puts  an  end  to 

pain: 
I  know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  I. 

"  Love,  art  thou  sweet  ?  then  bitter 
death  must  be  i  . 


Love,  thou  art  bitter ;  sweet  is  deatli 
to  me. 

0  Love,  if  death  be  sweeter,  let  mc 

die. 

"  Sweet  Love,  that  seems  not  mace 
to  fade  away, 
Sweet  death,  that  seems  to  make  us 
loveless  clay, 

1  know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  L 

"  I  fain  would  follow  love,  if  that 

could  be : 
I  needs  must  follow  death,  who  calls 

for  me  ; 
Call   and   I   follow,  I  follow !  let  me 

die^i) 

High  with  the  last  line  scaled  her 

voice,  and  this. 
All  in  a  fiery  dawning  wild  with  wind 
That  shook   her  tower,  the   brothers 

heard,  and  thought 
With  shuddering,  "  Hark  the  Phantom 

of  the  house 
•xThat  ever  shrieks  before  a  death,"  and 

call'd 
The  father,  and  all  three  in  hurry  and 

fear 
Ran  to  her,  and  lo!  the  blood-red  light 

of  dawn 
Flared  on  her  face,  she  shrilling  "  LeO 

me  die ! "  ^ 

As  when  we  dwell  upon  a  word  we 

know. 
Repeating,  till  the  vi'ord  we  know  so 

well 
Becomes  a  wonder  and  we  know  not 

why. 
So  dwelt  the  father  on  her  face  and 

thought 
"  Is  this  Elaine?"  till  back  the  maiden 

fell, 
Then  gave  a  languid  hand  to  each,  and 

lay. 
Speaking  a  still  good-morrow  with  her 

eyes. 
At  last  she  said,  '*  ^weet  brothers,  yes- 

ternight 
I  seem'd  a  curious  little  maid  again, 


ID  YLS  OF  THE  KING. 


321 


As  happy  as  when  we  dwelt  among  the 

woods, 
And  when  you  used  to  take  me  with 

the  flood 
Up  the  great  river  in  the  boatman's 

boat. 
Only  you  would  not  pass  beyond  the 

cape  [fixt 

That  has  the  poplar  on  it  :  there  you 
Your  limit,  oft  returning  with  the  tide, 
And  yet  I  cried  because  you  would  not 

pass 
Beyond  it,  and  far  up  the  shining  flood 
Until  we  found  the  palace  of  the  king. 
And  yet  you  would  nod ;  but  this  night 

I  dream'd 
That  I  was  all  alone  upon  the  flood, 
And  then  I  said,  '  Now  shall  I  have  my 

will  :  ' 
And  there  I  woke,  but  still   the  wish 

remain'd. 
-So  let  me  hence  that  I  may  pass  at  last 
^eyond  the  poplar  and  far  up  the  flood, 
(Until  I  find  the  palace  of  the  king. 
"There  will  I  enter  in  among  them  all, 
And  no  man  there  will  dare  to  mock 

at  me  ; 
But  there  the  fine  Gawain  will  wonder 

at  me, 
And  there  the  great  Sir  Lancelot  muse 

at  me ; 
Gawain,  who  bade  a  thousand  farewells 

to  me, 
Lancelot,  who  coldly  went  nor  bade  me 

one  : 
And  there  the  King  will  know  me  and 

my  love, 
And  there  the  Queen  herself  will  pity 

me, 
And  all  the  gentle  court  will  welcome 
/        me, 
^And  after  my  long  voyage  I  shall  rest !  " 

"  Peace,"   said   her   father,  "  O   my 

child,  you  seem 
Light-headed,  for  what  force  is  yours 

to  go, 
So   far,    being    sick  ?    and   wherefore 

would  you  look 
On  this  proud  fellow  again,  who  scorns 

us  all  }  " 


Then   the    rough   ^Torr£^  began  to 

heave  and  move, 
And  bluster  into  stormy  sobs  and  say, 
"  I   never  loved  him  :  an  1  meet  with 

him, 
I  care  not  howsoever  great  he  be, 
Then  will  I  strike  at  him  and  strike  him 

down. 
Give  me  good  fortune,  I  will  strike  him  ) 

dead, 
For  this  discomfort   he  hath  done  the 

house." 

To  which    the  gentle   sister    made 

reply, 
**  Fret  not  yourself,  dear  brother,  nor 

be  wroth, 
Seeing   it   is   no   more    Sir  Lancelot's 

fault 
Not  to  love  me,  than  is  it  mine  to  love 
Him  of  all   men  who  seems  to  me  the 

highest." 

"  Highest  ?  "  the    Father   answer'd, 

echoing  "  highest." 
(He  meant  to  break  the  passion  in  her.) 

"  Nay, 
Daughter,  I   know   not   what  you  call 

the  highest  ; 
But   this   I  know,  for   all   the   people 

know  it,  \ 

He  loves  the  Queen,  and   in  an  open) 

shame  :  "^  ' 

And  she  returns  his  love  in  open  shame. 
If  this  be  high,  what  is  it  to  be  low  ?  " 

Then  spake  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat : 
*'  Sweet   father,  all   too  famt  and  sick 

am  I 
For  anger  :  these  are  slanders  :  never 

yet 
Was  noble  man  but  made  ignoble  talk. 
He  makes  no  friend  who  never  made  a 

foe. 
But  now  it  is  my  glory  to  have  loved 
One  peerless,  without  stain  :  so  let  ms 

pass. 
My  father,  howsoe'er  I  seem  to  you, 
Not   all  unhappy,  having  loved   God's 

best 
And   greatest,    tho'    my   love   had  no/ 

return : 


322 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING, 


Yet,  seeing  you    desire   your    child   to 

live, 
Thanks,  but  you  work  against  your  own 

desire  ; 
For  if  I   could    believe  the  things  you 

say 
I  should  but  die  the  sooner :  wherefore 

cease,  [man 

"Sweet   father,  and  bid  call  the  ghostly 
/Hither,  and  let    me    shrive  me    clean, 
/        and  die." 
V 

So  when  the  ghostly  man  had  come 

and  gone. 
She  with  a  face,  bright  as   for  sin  for- 
given. 
Besought    Lavaine     to    write    as   she 

devised 
A  letter,  word  for  word  ;  and  when  he 

ask'd 
"  Is  it  for  Lancelot,  is  it  for  my  dear 

lord  ? 
Then  will    I   bear    it  gladly ;  "    she 

replied, 
'*'  For  Lancelot   and  the  Queen  and  all 

the  world, 
But  I  myself  must  bear  it."     Then  he 

wrote 
The  letter  she  devised;  which  being 

writ 
And  folded,  "  O  sweet  father,  tender 

and  true, 
Deny  me  not,"  she  said — '*  you  never 

yet 
Denied    my     fancies — this,     however 

strange, 
My  latest  :  lay  the  letter  in  my  hand 
A  little  ere  I  die,  and  close  the  hand 
Upon  it;  I  shall  guard  it  even  in  death, 
And   when    the    heat  is  gone  from  out 

my  heart. 
Then  take  the  little   bed  on  which  I 

died 
For  Lancelot's  love,  and  deck  it  like 

the  Queen's 
For   richness,    and  me    also    like    the 

Queen 
In  all  I  have  of  rich,  and  lay  me  on  it. 
And   let  there  be  prepared  a  chariot- 
bier 


Be  ready  on  the  river,  clothed  in  black 
I  go  in  state  to  court,  to  meet  the  Queen. 
There   surely  I  shall   speak  for   mine 

own  self. 
And  none  of  you  can  speak  for  me  so 

well. 
And  therefore   let   our  dumb  old  man 

alone 
Go  with  me,  he  can  steer  and  row,  and 

he 
Will   guide  me   to   that  palace,  to  the 
'       doors." 

She    ceased :    her    father    promised  ; 

whereupon 
She  grew  so  cheerful  that  they  deem'd 

her  death 
Was  rather   in   the   fantasy  than   the 

blood. 
But  ten   slow  mornings   past,  and  on 

the  eleventh 
Her  father  laid  the  letter  in  her  hand, 
,-And  closed  the  hand  upon  it,  and  she 
y        died. 
So  that  day  there  was  dole  in  Astolat. 

But  when  the  next   sun  brake  from 

underr^round. 
Then,  those  two   brethren  slowly  with 

bent  brows 
Accompanying,  the  sad  chario^bicr 
Past  like  a  shadow  thro'  the  field,  that 

shone 
Full-summer,  to  that   stream  whereon 

the  barge, 
PallM  all  its  length  in  blackest  samite, 

lay. 
There  sat  the   lifelong   creature  of  the 

house, 
Loyal,  the  dumb  old  servitor,  on  declc^ 
Winking  his  eyes,  and  twisted    all   his 

face. 
So  those  two  brethren  from  the  cnariol 

took 
And  on  the  black  decks  laid  her  in  hei 

bed, 
Set  in  her  hand  a  lily,  o'er  her  hung 
The  silken  case   with  braided  blazon- 

ings, 
And  kiss'dher  quiet  brows,  and  saying 

to  her, 
"  Sister,  farewell  forever,"  and  again, 


WYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


323 


"  Farewell,  sweet  sister,"  parted  all  in 
tears. 

Then  rose  the  dumb  old  servitor,  and 
the  dead 

Steer'd  by  the  dumb  went  upward  with 
the  flood — 

In  her  right  hand  the  lily,  in  her  left 

The  letter — all  her  bright  hair  stream- 
ing down — 

And  all  the  coverlid  was  doth  of  gold 

Drawn  to  her  waist,  and  she  herself  in 
white 

All  but  her  face,  and  that  clear-featured 
face 

Was  lovely,  for  she  did  not  seem  as 

/tut  fast  asleep,   and  lay  as  tho'  she 
(^        smiled. 

That  day  Sir  Lancelot  at  the  palace 

craved 
Audience  of  Guinevere,  to  give  at  last 
The   price  of   half  a  realm,  his  costly 

gift, 
Hard-won  and  hardly  won  with  bruise 

and  blow, 
With  deaths  of  others,  and  almost  his 

own, 
The    nine-years-foughf-for    diamonds  : 

for  he  saw 
One  of  her  house,  and  sent  him  to  the 

Queen 
Bearing  his  wish,  whereto  the   Queen 

agreed 
With  such  and  so  unmoved  a  majesty 
She  might  have  seem'd  her  statue,  but 

that  he. 
Low-drooping   till   he  wellnigh   kiss'd 

her  feet 
For  loyal  awe,  saw  with  a  sidelong  eye 
The  shadow  of  a  piece  of  pointed  lace, 
In  the  Queen's  shadow,  vibrate  on  the 

walls, 
And  parted,  laughing   in   his   courtly 

heart. 

All  in  an  oriel  on  the  summer  side, 
Vine-clad,  of  Arthur's   palace  toward 

the  stream, 
They    met,   and     Lancelot    kneeling 

utter'd  "  Queen, 


Lady,  my   liege,  in  whom  I  have  my 

joy, 
Take,  what  I  had   not  won  except   for 

you. 
These  jewels,   and  make   me  happy, 

making  them 
An   armlet  for   the    roundest   arm  on 

earth. 
Or  necklace  for  a  neck   to  which  the 

swan's 
Is  tawnier  than  her  cygnet's  :  these  are 

words  : 
Your  beauty  is  your  beauty,  and  I  sin 
In  speaking,  yet  O  grant  my  worship 

of  it 
Words,  as  we  grant  grief  tears.     Such 

sin  in  words 
Perchance,  we  both  can  pardon :  but, 

my  Queen, 
I   hear    of    rumors   flying   thro'   your 

court. 
Our  bond,   as   not   the  bond   of   man 

and  wife. 
Should  have  in  it  an  absoluter  trust 
To   make   up  that   defect  :  let  rumors 

be: 
When   did  not  rumors  fly  }  these,  as  I 

trust 
That  you  trust  me  in  your  own  noble- 
ness, 
I  may  not  well  believe  that  you  believe." 

While  thus   he   spoke,    half  turned 

away,  the  Queen 
Brake  from  the  vast  oriel-embowering 

vine 
Leaf  after  leaf,  and  tore,  and  cast  them 

off. 
Till   all   the  place  whereon  she  stood 

was  green  ; 
Then,   when   he  ceased,  in    one   cold 

passive  hand 
Received  at  once   and  laid  aside  the 

gems 
There  on  a  table  near  her,  and  replied  : 

"  It  may  be,  I  am  quicker  of  belief 
Than  you  believe  me,  Lancelot  of  the 

Lake. 
Our  bond  is  not  the  bond  of  man  aj 

wife.  ' 

This  good  is  in  it,  whatsoe'er  of  illji 


324 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


It  can  be  broken  easier.     I  for  you 
This  many  a  year   have  done  despite 

and  wrong 
To  one  whom  ever  in  my  heart  of 

hearts 
I  did  acknowledge  nobler.     What  are 

these  ? 
Diamonds  for    me  !    they    had    been 

thrice  their  worth 
Being  your  gift,  had  you  not  lost  your 

own. 
To  loyal  hearts  the  value  of  all  gifts 
Must  vary  as  the  giver's.     Not  for  me  ! 
For  her!  for  your  new  fancy.     Only 

this 
Grant  me,  I  pray  you  :  have  your  joys 

apart. 
I  doubt  not  that  however  changed,  you 

keep 
So  much  of  what  is  graceful  :  and  my- 
self 
Would  shun  to  break  those  bounds  of 

courtesy 
In   which   as  Arthur's   queen  I  move 

and  rule ; 
So  cannot  speak  my  mind.     An  end  to 

this  ! 
A  strange  one  !  yet    I    take    it    with 

Amen. 
So  pray  you,  add  my  diamonds  to  her 

pearls ; 
Deck  her   with  these  ;    tell  her,   she 

shines  me  down  : 
An   armlet  for  an  arm  to  which   the 

Queen's 
Is  haggard,  or  a  necklace  for  a  neck 
O  as  much   fairer — as  a  faith  once  fair 
Was  richer  than  these  diamonds — hers 

not  mine — 
Nay,  by  the  mother  of  our  Lord  him- 
self, 
Or  hers  or  mine,  mine  now  to  work  my 

will — 
She  shall  not  have  them." 

Saying  which  she  seized, 
And  thro'  the  casement  standing  wide 

for  heat, 
Flung  them,  and  down  they  flash'd,  and 

smote  the  stream. 
Then  from  the  smitten  surface  flash'd 

as  it  were, 


Diamonds  to  meet  them,  and  they  past 

away. 
Then  while  Sir  Lancelot  leant,  in  half 

disgust 
At  love,  life,  all  things,  on  the  window 

ledge, 
Close  underneath   his  eyes,  and  right 

across 
Where  these  had  fallen,  slowly  past  the 

barge 
Whereon  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat 
Lay  smiling,   like   a  star  in  blackest 

night. 

But  the   wild  Queen,  who  saw  not, 

burst  away 
To  weep  and  wail  in  secret  ;  and  the 

barge 
On    to    the    palace-doorway    sliding, 

paused. 
There  two  stood  arm'd,  and  kept  the 

door  ;  to  whom. 
All  up  the  marbie  stair,  tier  over  tier, 
Were   added   mouths  that  gaped,  and 

eyes  that  ask'd 
*'  What   is   it  t "    but  that   oarsman's 

haggard  face. 
As  hard  and  still  as  is  the  face  that 

men 
Shape  to  their  fancy's  eye  from  broken 

rocks 
On  some  cliff-side,  appall'd  them,  and 

they  said, 
"  He  is  enchanted,  cannot  speak — and 

she, 
Look  how  she  sleeps — the  Fairy  Queen, 

so  fair  ! 
Yea,  but  how  pale  !   what  are  they  ? 

flesh  and  blood .'' 
Or  come   to  take  the   King  to  fairy 

land } 
For  some  do  hold  our  Arthur  cannot) 

die. 
But  that  he  passes  into  fairy  land."  / 

While  thus  they  babbled  of  the  King 

the  King 
Came  girt  with  knights :   then  turn'd 

the  tongueless  man 
From  the  half-face  to  the  full  eye,  and 

rose 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


325 


And  pointed  to  the  damsel,  and  the 

doors. 
So  Arthur  bade  the  meek  Sir  Perci- 

vale 
And   pure   Sir  Galahad  to  uplift  the 

maid; 
And    reverently  they  bore    her    into 

hall. 
Then  came  the  fine^Gawain,  and  won- 
der'd  at  her,    ^^    -  "  ^ 
And  Lancelot  later  came  and  niused 

at  her, 
At  last  the  Queen  hCTseJLan^Lpitkd. 

her:  '"'" 

But  Arthur    spied   the  letter  in   her 

hand, 
Stoopt,  took,  brake  seal,  and  read  it ; 

this  was  all  : 

"Most  noble  lord,  Sir  Lancelot  of 
the  Lake, 

I,  sometime  call'd  the  maid-xrf-Astofety 

Come,  for  you  left  me  taking  no  fare- 
well, 

Hither,  to  take  my  last  farewell    of 
y.u. 

I  loved  you,  and  my  love  had  no  re- 
turn, 

And  therefore  my  true  love  has  been 
my  death. 

And  therefore  to  our  lady  Guinevere, 

And  to  all  other  ladies,  I  make  moan. 

Pray  for  my  soul,  and  yield  me  burial. 

Prav  for  my  soul,  thou  too.  Sir  Lance- 
'lot, 

As  thou  art  a  knight  peerless." 

Thus  he  read, 

And  ever  in  the  readings  lords  and 
dames 

Wept,  looking  often  from  his  face  who 
read 

To  hers  which  lay  so  silent,  and  at 
times, 

So  touch'd  were   they,  half-thinking 
that  her  1  ps. 

Who  had  devised  the  letter,  moved 
again. 

Then  freely  spoke  Sir  Lancelot  to 
them  all  ; 
"  My  lord  liege  Arthur,  and  all  ye  that 
hear, 


Know  that  for  this  most  gentle  maid- 
en's death 
Right  heavy  am  I ;  for  good  she  was 

and  true. 
But  loved  me  with  a  love  beyond  all 

love 
In  women,  whomsoever  I  have  known. 
Yet   to  be  loved  makes  not  to  love 

again ; 
Not  at  my  years,  however  it  hold  in 

youth. 
I  swear  by  truth  and  knighthood  that 

I  gave  [love  : 

No  cause,  not  willingly,  for  such  a 
To  this  I  call  my  friends'  in  testimony. 
Her    brethren,   and  her    father,  who 

himself 
Besought  me  to  be  plain  and  blunt, 

and  use, 
To  break  her  passion,  some  discour- 
tesy 
Against  my  nature:   what  I  could,  1 

did. 
I  left  her  and  I  bade  her  no  farewell. 
Tho'  had  I  dreamt  the  damsel  would 

have  died, 
I  might   have   put   my  wits  to   soma 

rough  use. 
And  help'd  her  from  herself." 

Then  said  the  Queen 
(Sea  was  her  wrath,  yet  working  aftet 

storm), 
"You  might  at  least  have  done  her 

so  much  grace. 
Fair  lord,  as  would  have  help'd  her 

from  her  death." 
He  raised  his  head,  their  eyes  met  and 

hers  fell, 
He  adding, 

"  Queen,  she  would  not  be  content 
Save  that  I  wedded  her,  which  could 

not  be. 
Then  might  she  follow  me  thro'  the 

world,  she  ask'd; 
It  could  not  be.     I  told  her  that  her 

love 
Was  but   the   flash  of  youth,   would 

darken  down 
To  rise  hereafter  in  a  stiller  flame 
Toward  one  more  worthy  of  her — then 

would  I, 


326 


TDYLS  OF  THE  KING, 


More  specially  were  he,  she  wedded, 
poor, 

Estate  them  with  large  land  and  terri- 
tory 

In  mine  own  realm  beyond  the  narrow 
seas. 

To  keep  them  in  all  joyance:  more 
than  this 

I  could  not  :  this  she  would  not,  and 
she  died." 

He  pausing,  Arthur  answer'd,  "  O 
my  knight, 

It  will  be  to  your  worship  as  my 
knight, 

And  mine,  as  head  of  all  our  Table 
Round, 

To  see  that  she  be  buried  worship- 
fully." 

vSo  toward  that  shrine  which  then  in 
all  the  realm 

Was  richest,  Arthur  leading,  slowly 
went 

The  marshall'd  order  of  their  Table 
Round, 

And  Lancelot  sad  beyond  his  wont,  to 
see 

The  maiden  buried,  not  as  one  un- 
known. 

Nor  meanly,  but  with  gorgeous  ob- 
sequies. 

And  mass,  and  rolling  music,  like  a 
Queen. 

And  when  the  knights  had  laid  her 
comely  head 

Low  in  the  dust  of  half-forgotten  kings. 

Then  Arthur  spake  among  them,  "  Let 
her  tomb 

Be  costly,  and  her  image  thereupon. 

And  let  the  shield  of  Lancelot  at  her 
feet 

Be  carven,  and  her  lily  in  her  hand. 

And  let  the  story  of  her  dolorous  voy- 
age 

For  all  true  hearts  be  blazon'd  on  her 
tomb 

In  letters  gold  and  azure !  "  which  was 
wrought 

Thereafter;  but  when  now  the  lords 
and  dames 


And  people,  from  the  high  door,  stream- 

ing,  brake 
Disorderly,    as    homeward    each,   the 

Queen, 
Who  mark'd  Sir  Lancelot  where  he 

moved  apart. 
Drew    near,    and  sigh'd    in    passing, 

"  Lancelot, 
Forgive    me;    mine    was  jealousy  in 

love." 
He  answer'd  with  his  eyes  upon  the 

ground, 
"That  is  love's  curse;   pass  on,  my 

Queen,  forgiven." 
But   Arthur   who   beheld    his    cloudy 

brows 
Approach'd  him,  and  with  full  affec- 
tion flung 
One  arm  about  his  neck,  and  spake 

and  said : 

"Lancelot,  my    Lancelot,    thou    in 

whom  I  have 
Most    joy    and    most    affiance,  for  I 

know 
What  thou  hast  been  in  battle  by  my 

side, 
And  many  a  time  have  watch'd  thee  at 

the  tilt 
Strike  down  the  lusty  and  long-prac- 
tised knight,  [by 
And  let  the  younger  and  unskill'd  go 
To  win  his   honor  and   to  make  his 

name, 
And  loved  thy  courtesies  and  thee,  a 

man 
Made  to  be  loved ; — but  now  I  would 

to  God 
For  the  wild  people  say  wild  things  of 

thee. 
Thou  couldst  have  loved  this  maiden, 

shaped,  it  seems, 
By  God  for  thee  alone,  and  from  her 

face. 
If  one   may  judge  the  living  by  the 

dead. 
Delicately  pure  and  marvellously  fair, 
Who  might  have  brought  thee,  now  a 

lonely  man 
Wifeless    and    heirless,    noble    issue, 

sons 


ID  YLS  OF  THE  KING. 


32) 


Born   to  the   glory   of   thy  name  and 

fame, 
My  knight,  the  great  Sir  Lancelot  of 

the  Lake." 

Then  answer'd  Lan"celot,  "  Fair  she 
was,  my  King, 
Pure,  as  you  ever  wish  your  knights  to 

be. 
To  doubt  her  fairness  were  to  want  an 

eye, 
I'o  doubt  her  pureness  were  to  want  a 

heart, — 
Yea,  to  be  loved,  if  what  is   worthy 
o        love 

yCould  bind  him,  but  free  love  will  not 
(  be  bound." 

y'Tree  love,  so  bound,  were  freest," 

'      said  the  King. 

"  Let  love  be  free ;  free  love  is  for  the 

best- 
And,  after  heaven,  on  our  dull  side  of 

death, 
What  should  be  best,  if  not  so  pure  a 

love 
Clothed  in  ^o  pure  a  loveliness  "i  yet 

thee 
She  fail'd  to  bind,  tho'  being,  as   I 

think. 
Unbound    as    yet,  and    gentle,   as    I 

know." 

And  Lancelot  answer'd  nothing,  but 

he  went, 
And  at  the  inrunning  of  a  little  brook 
Sat  by  the  river  in  a  cove  and  watch'd 
The  high  reed  wave,  and  lifted  up  his 

eyes 
And  saw  the  barge  that  brought  her 

moving  down, 
Far-off.  a  blot  upon  the  stream,  and 

said 
Low  in  himself,  "Ah  simple  heart  and 

sweet. 
You  loved  me,  damsel,  surely  with  a 

love 
Far  tenderer  than  my  Queen's.     Pray 

for  thy  soul  ? 
Ay,  that  will  I.     Farewell  too — now  at 

last- 
Farewell,  fair  lily.    'Jealousy  in  love  .-' ' 


Not   rather   dead    love's    harsh    heir, 

jealous  pride  .^ 
Queen,  if  I  grant   the   jealousy  as   of 

love, 
May  not  your  crescent  fear  for  name 

and  fame 
Speak,   as   it  waxes,   of  a  love    that 

wanes  ? 
Why  did  the  King  dwell  on  my  name 

to  me  } 
Mine  own  name  shames  me,  seeming  a 

reproach, 
Lancelot,  whom  the  Lady  of  the  lake 
Stole  from  his  mother — as  the   story 

runs — 
She    chanted  snatches  of  mysterious 

song 
Heard  on  the  winding  waters,  eve  and 

morn 
She  kiss'd  me  saying  thou  art  fair,  my 

child. 
As  a  king's  soU;  and  often  in  her  arms 
She   bare  me,   pacing  on  the    dusky 

mere. 
Would    she   had  drown'd  me    in    it, 

where'er  it  be ! 
For  what  am  I  ?  what  profits  me  my 

name 
Of  greatest  knight?    I  fought  for  it, 

and  have  it; 
Pleasure  to  have  it,  none ;  to  lose  it, 

^pain: 

Now  grown  a  part  of  me:    but  what 

use  ixi  it  ? 
To  make  men  worse  by  making  my  sin 

known  ? 
Or  sin  seem  less,  the  sinner  seeming 

great  ?  [man 

Alas  for   Arthur's   greatest   knight,  a 
Not  after  Arthur's  heart,  I  needs  must 

break 
These  bonds  that  so  defame  me :  not 

without 
She  wills  it :  would  I,  if  she  will'd  it? 

nay. 
Who  knows  ?  but  if  I  would  not,  then 

may  God, 
I    pray   him,    send    a  sudden   Angel 

down 
To  seize  me  by  the  hair  and  bear  m« 

far. 


328 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


And  fling  me  deep  in  that  forgotten 

mere, 
Among  the  tumbled  fragments  of  the 

hills." 

So  groan'd  Sir  Lancelot  in  remorse- 
ful pain, 
Not  knowing  he   should   die   a  holy 
man. 


GUINEVERE. 

Queen  Guinevere Jiad  fled  the  court, 

and  sat 
There  in  the  holy  house  at  Almesbury 
Weeping,  none  with  her  save  a  little 

maid, 
A  novice :  one  low  light  betwixt  them 

burn'd 
Blurr'd  by  the  creeping  mist,  for  all 

abroad, 
Beneath  a  moon  unseen  albeit  at  full, 
The  white  mist,  like  a  face-cloth  to  the 

face, 
Clung  to  the  dead  earth,  and  the  land 

was  still. 

For  hither  had  she  fled,  her  cause  of 

flight 
Sir  Modred ;    he   the   nearest   to   the 

King, 
His  nephew,  ever  like  a  subtle  beast 
Lay  couchant  with  his  eyes  upon  the 

throne, 
Ready  to  spring,  waiting  a  chance  :  for 

this, 
He  chill'd  the  popular  praises  of  the 

King, 
With  silent  smiles  of  slow  disparage- 
ment; 
And  tamper'd  with  the  Lords  of  the 

White  Horse, 
Heathen,  the  brood  by  Hengist  left; 

and  sought 
To    make    disruption    in    the    Table 

Round 
Of  Arthur,  and  to  splinter  it  into  feuds 
Serving  his  traitorous  end;  and  all  his 

aims 
Were    sharpen'd   by   strong  hate  for 

Lancelot. 


For  thus  it  chanced  one  morn  when 

all  the  court, 
Green-suited,   but   with    plumes    that 

mock'd  the  May, 
Had  Ijeen,  theii:..wont,  a-maying  and  re- 

turn'd, 
That  Modred  still  in  green,  all  ear  and 

eye, 
Climb'd  to  the  high  top  of  the  garden 

wall 
To  spy  some  secret  scandal  if  he  might, 
And  saw  the  Queen,  who  sat  betwixt 

her  best 
Enid,  and  lissome  Vivien,  of  her  court 
The  wiliest  and  the  worst ;  and  more 

than  this 
He  saw  not,  for  Sir  Lancelot  passing 

by 
Spied  where   he  couch' d,  and  as  the 

gardener's  hand 
Picks  from  the  colev/ort  a  green  cat- 
erpillar. 
So  from  the  high  wall  and  the  flowering 

grove 
Of  grasses  Lancelot  pluck'dhim  by  the 

heel, 
And  cast  him  as  a  worm  upon  the  way; 
But   when   he   knew   the    Prince   tho* 

marr'd  with  dust, 
He,  reverencing  king's  blood  in  a  bad 

man. 
Made  such  excuses  as  he  might,  and 

these 
Full   knightly  without   scorn;    for    in 

those  days 
No  knight  of  Arthur's  noblest  dealt  in 

scorn  ; 
But,  if  a  man  were  halt  or  hunch'd,  in 

him 
By  those  whom  God  had  made  full- 

limb'd  and  tall. 
Scorn  was  allow'd  as  part  of  his  de- 
fect, 
And  he  was  answer'd    softly  by  the 

King 
And  all  his  Table.     So  Sir  Lancelot 

holp 
To  raise  the  Prince,  who  rising  twice 

or  thrice 
Full    sharply   smote   his    knees,    and 

smiled,  and  went : 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


3i'l 


But,  ever  after,  the  small  violence  done 
Rankled   in   him   and   ruffled   all   his 

heart, 
As  the  sharp,  wind  that  ruffles  all  day 

long 
A  little  bitter  pool  about  a  stone 
On  the  bare  coast. 

But  when  Sir  Lancelot  told 
This  matter  to  the  Queen,  at  firsc  she 

laugh'd 
Lightlv,  to  think  of  Modr&d's  dusty 

fall, 
Then  shudder'd,  aj  the  village  wife 

who  cries 
"  I  shudder  auKie  one  steps  across  my 

grave ; " 
Then  laygh'ci  again,  but  faintlier,  for 

indeed 
She  half-foresaw   that  he,  the  subtle 

beast, 
y/_)uld  track  her  guilt  until  he  found, 

and  hers 
V^^ould  be  forevermore  a  name  of  scorn. 
Henceforward  rarely  could  she  front 

in  Hall, 
Oi   elsewhere,  Modred's  narrow  foxy 

face, 
Heart-hiding  smile,  and  gray  persistent 

eye- 
Henceforward   too,  the  Powers    that 

tend  tiie  soul, 
To  help  it  from  the  death  that  cannot 

die, 
And  save  it  even  in  extremes,  began 
To  vex  and  plague  her.     Many  a  time 

for  hours. 
Beside  the   placid  breathings  of    the 

King, 
In  the  dead  night,  grim  faces  came  and 

went 
Before  her,  or  a  vague  spiritual  fear — 
Like  to  some  doubtful  noise  of  creak- 
ing doors. 
Heard  by  the  watcher   in  a   haunted 

house, 
That  keeps  the  rust  of  murder  on  the 

walls — 
Held  her  awake ;  or  if  she  slept,  she 

dream'd 
An  awful  dream ;  for  then  she  seem'd 

to  stand 


On  some  vast  plain  before  a  setting 

sun. 
And  from  the  sun  there  .swiftly  made 

at  her 
A  ghastly  something,  and  its  shadow 

flew 
Before  her,  till  it  touch'd  her,  and  she 

turn'd — 
When  lo!    her  own,  that  broadening 

from  her  feet. 
And  blackening,  swallow'd  all  the  land, 

and  in  it 
Far  cities  burnt,  and  with  a  cry  she 

woke. 
And  all  this  trouble  did  not  pass  but 

grew; 
Till  ev'n  the  clear  face  of  the  guileless 

King, 
And   trustful  courtesies  of  household 

life. 
Became  her  bane ;  and  at  the  last  she 

said, 
"  O  Lancelot,  get  thee  thence  to  thine 

own  land. 
For  if  thou  tarry  we  shall  meet  again, 
And  if  we  meet  again  some  evil  chance 
Will  make  the    smouldering   scandal 

break  and  blaze 
Before  the  people,  and  our    lord  the 

King." 
And  Lancelot  ever  promised,  but  re- 

main'd, 
And  still  they  met  and  met.     Again 

she  said, 
"  O  Lancelot,  if  thou  love  me  get  thee 

hence," 
And  then  they  were   agreed  upon  a 

night 
(When  the  good  King  should  not  be 

there)  to  meet  |met 

And  part  forever.     Passion-pale  they 
And  greeted  :  hands  in  hands,  and  eye 

to  eye. 
Low  on  the  border  of  her  couch  they 

they  sat 
Stammering  and  staring  ;  it  was  their 

last  hour, 
A  madness  of  farewells.     And  Modred 

brought 
His  creatures  to  the  basement  of  the 

tower 


330 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


For  testimony;  and  crying  with  full 
voice, 

*'  Traitor,  come  out,  ye  are  trapt  at 
last,"  aroused 

Lancelot,  who  rushing  outward  lion- 
like 

Leapt  on  him,  and  hurl'd  him  head- 
long, and  he  fell 

Stunn'd,  and  his  creatures  took  and 
bare  him  off 

And  all  was  still  :  then  she,  "  The  end 
is  come 

And  I  am  shamed  forever:"  and  he 
said, 

♦'  Mine  be  the  shame ;  mine  was  the 
sin ;   but  rise, 

And  fly  to  my  strong  castle  overseas  ; 

There  will  I  hide  thee,  till  my  life  shall 
end. 

There  hold  thee  with  my  life  against 
the  world." 

She  answer'd,  "  Lancelot,  wilt  thou 
hold  me  so  ? 

Nay  friend,  for  we  have  taken  our  fare- 
wells. 

Would  God,  that  thou  couldst  hide  me 
from  myself ! 

Mine  is  the  shame,  for  I  was  wife,  and 
thou 

Unwedded  :  yet  rise  now,  and  let  us 

fly,. 

For  I  will  draw  me  into  sanctuary, 
And  bide  my  doom."     So  Lancelot  got 

her  horse. 
Set  her  thereon,  and  mounted  on  his 

own. 
And  then  they  rode  to  the  divided  way. 
There  kiss'd,  and  parted  weeping  :  for 

he  past    « 
Love-loyal   to  the   least  wish   of  the 

Queen, 
Back  to  his  land ;  but  she  to  Almes- 

bury 
Fled   all    night    long    by  glimmering 

waste  and  weald. 
And  heard  the  Spirits  of  the  waste  and 

weald 
Moan  as  she  fled,  or  thought  she  heard 

them  moan : 
And  in  herself  she  moan'd,  "  Too  late, 

too  late ! " 


Till  in  the  cold  wind  that  foreruns  the 

morn. 
A -blot  in  heaven,  the  Raven,  flying 

high, 
Croak'd,  and  she  thought,  "  He  spies 

a  field  of  death  ; 
For  now  the  heathen  of  the  Northerr 

Sea, 
Lured   by  the  crimes  and  frailties  ol 

the  court. 
Begin  to  slay  the  folk,  and  spoil  the 

land." 
And  when  she  came  to  Almesburj 

she  spake 
There  to  the  nuns,  and  said,  "  Mine 

enemies 
Pursue   me,   but,    O    peaceful    Sister 

hood, 
Receive,  and  yield  me  sanctuary,  no 

ask 
Her  name,  to  whom  ye  yield  it,  till  hei 

time 
To  tell  you : "  and  her  beauty,  grace 

and  power 
Wrought  as  a  charm  upon  them,  anc 

they  spared 
To  ask  it. 

So  the  stately  Queen  abod( 
For  many  a  week,  unknown,  among  thi 

nuns ; 
Nor   with   them  mix'd,  nor  told  he 

name,  nor  sought. 
Wrapt  in  her  grief,  for  housel  or  fo 

shrift, 
But   communed    only   with   the   littl 

maid. 
Who    pleased   her    with   a    babblin 

heedlessness 
Which  often  lured  her  from  herself 

but  now. 
This  night,  a  rumor  wildly  blown  abou 
Came  that    Sir   Modred    had   usurp'' 

the  realm. 
And   leagued   him   with   the  heathei 

while  the  King 
Was  waging  war   on  Lancelot  :  the 

she  thought, 
**  With  what  a  hate  the  people  and  th 

King 
Must  hate  me,"  and  bow'd  down  upo 
her  hands 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


l^"^ 


Silent,  until  the  little  maid,  who  brook'd 
No  silence,  brake  it,  uttering  '*  Late  ! 

so  late ! 
What    hour,  I    wonder,    now  ? "  and 

when  she  drew 
No  answer,  by  and  by  began  to  hum 
An  air  the  nuns  had  taught  her ; ''  Late, 

so  late  ! " 
Which  when  she  heard,   the   Queen 

look'd  up,  and  said, 
*'  O  maiden,  if  indeed  you  list  to  sing, 
Sing  and  unbind  my  heart  that  I  may 

weep." 
Whereat  full  willingly  sang  the  little 

maid. 

*'  Late,  late,  so  late !  and  dark  the 

night  and  chill ! 
Late,  late,  so  late !  but  we  can  enter 

still. 
Too  late,  too  late  1  ye  cannot  enter 

now. 

"  No  light  had  we  ;  for  that  we  do 

repent ; 
And  learning  this,  the  bridegroom  will 

relent. 
Too  late,   too  late!  ye  cannot  enter 

now. 
"  No  light :  so  late !  and  dark  and 

chill  the  night! 
O  let  us  in,  that  we  may  find  the  light ! 
Too  late,  too  late !  ye  cannot  enter 

now. 

"  Have  we    not    heard    the    bride- 
groom is  so  sweet  ? 
O  let  us  in,  tho'  late,  to  kiss  his  feet ! 
No,  no,  too  late  !  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

So  sang  the  novice,  while  full  pas- 
sionately. 

Her  head  upon  her  hands,  remember- 
ing 

Her  thought  when  first  she  came,  wept 
the  sad  Queen. 

Then  said  the  little  novice  prattling  to 
her; 

**  O  pray  you,  noble  lady,  weep  no 
more : 
But  let  my  words,  the  words  of  one  so 
small, 


Who  knowing  nothing  knows  but  to 

obey, 
And  if  I  do  not  there  is  penance  given — 
Comfort    your    sorrows ;  for  they  do 

not  flow 
From  evil  done  :  right  sure  am  I  of  that, 
Who  see  your  tender  grace  and  state- 

liness. 
But  weigh  your  sorrows  with  our  lord 

the  King's, 
And    weighing    find  them    less ;   for 

gone  is  he 
To  wage  grim  war  against  Sir  Lance- 
lot there, 
Round    that  strong   castle  where  he 

holds  the  Queen ; 
And  Modred  whom  he  left  in  charge 

of  all, 
The  traitor — Ah  .sweet  lady,  the  King's 

grief 
For  his  own  self,  and  his  own  Queen, 

and  realm, 
Must  needs  be  thrice  as  great  as  any  of 

ours.  [great. 

For  me  I  thank  the  saints  I  am  not 
For  if  there  ever  come  a  grief  to  me 
I  cry  my  cry  in  silence,  and  have  done  : 
None  knows   it,  and  my  tears   have 

brought  me  good. 
But  even  were  the  griefs  of  little  ones 
As  great  as   those  of  great  ones,  yet 

this  grief 
Is  added  to  the  griefs  the  great  must 

bear, 
That  howsoever  much  they  may  desire 
Silence,   they  cannot  weep  behind  a 

cloud ; 
As  even  here  they  talk  at  Almesbury 
About  the  good  King  ^nd  his  wicked 

Queen, 
And  were  I  such  a  King  with  such  a 

Queen, 
Well  might  I  wish  to  veil  her  wicked- 
ness. 
But  were  I  such  a  King,  it  could  nd^ 

be." 

Then  to  her  own  sad  heart  mutttr'd 
the  Queen, 
"  Will  the  child  kill  me  with  her  in- 
Rocent  talk  ? " 


332 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


But  openly  she  answer'd,  "  Must  not  I, 
If  this  false  traitor  liave  displaced  his 

lord, 
Grieve  with  the  common  grief  of  all 

the  realm  ?  " 

"  Yea,"  said  the  maid,  "  this  is  all 

woman's  grief, 
That  she  is  woman,  whose  disloyal  life 
Hath  wrought  confusion  in  the  Table 

Round 
Which  good   King    Arthur  founded, 

years  ago, 
With  signs  and  miracles  and  wonders, 

there 
At  Camelot,  ere   the   coming  of    the 

Queen." 

Then  thought  the  Queen  within  her- 
self again, 

"  Will  the  child  kill  me  with  her  foolish 
prate  ? " 

But  openly  she  spake  and  said  to  her, 

••'O  little  maid,  shut  in  by  nunnery 
walls, 

W^hat  canst  thou  know  of  Kings  and 
Tables  Round, 

Or  what  of  signs  and  wonders,  but  the 
signs 

\nd  simple  miracles  of  thy  nunnery  ?  " 

To  whom  the  little  novice  garrulous- 
ly: 

*'  Yea,  but  I  know  :  the  land  was  full  of 
signs 

And  wonders  ere  the  coming  of  the 
Queen. 

So  said  my  father,  and  himself  was 
knight 

Of  the  great  Table — at  the  founding  of 
it: 

And  rode  thereto  from  Lyonnesse,  and 
he  said 

That  as  he  rode,  an  hour  or  maybe 
twain 

After  the  sunset,  down  the  coast,  he 
heard 

Strange  music,  and  he  paused  and 
turning — there. 

All  down  the  lonely  coast  of  Lyon- 
nesse, 


Each  with  a  beacon-star  upon  his  heac 
And  with  a  wild  sea-light  about  hi-s  fee 
He  saw  them — headland  after  headlan 

flame 
Far  on  into  the  rich  heart  of  the  west 
And  in  the  light  the  white  mermaide 

swam, 
And  strong  man-breasted  things  stoo 

from  the  sea. 
And  sent  a  deep  sea-voice  thro'  all  th 

land, 
To  which  the  little  elves  of  chasm  an( 

cleft 
Made  answer,  sounding  like  a  distar 

horn. 
So  said   my  father — yea,  and  furthe: 

more, 
Next  morning,  while  he  past  the  din 

lit  woods. 
Himself  beheld  three  spirits  mad  wit 

joy 
Come  dashing  down  on  a  tall  waysid 

flower, 
That  shook  beneath  them,  as  the  thistl 

shakes 
When   three  gray  linnets  wrangle  fc 

the  seed  : 
And    still    at  evenings  on  before  h: 

horse 
The  flickering  fairy-circle  wheel'd  an 

broke 
Flying,  and  link'd  again,  and  wheel' 

and  broke 
Flying,  for  all  the  land  was  full  of  life 
And  when  at  last  he  came  to  Cameloi 
A  wreath  of  airy  dancers  hand-in-hanc 
Swung  round  the  lighted  lantern  of  tl: 

hall; 
And  in  the  hall  itself  was  such  a  feast 
As  never  man  had  dream'd  ;  for  eve: 

knight 
Had  whatsoever  meat   he   long'd  fc 

served 
By  hands  unseen  ;  and  even  as  he  sal 
Down    in   the    cellars    merry  bloate 

things 
Shoulder'd  the  spigot,  straddling  on  th 

butts 
While  the  wine  ran   so  glad  were  spiri 

and  nien 
Before  the  coming  of  the  sinful  Queen 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KhXG. 


ZZZ 


Then  spake  the  Queen,  and  somewhat 

bitterly, 
Were  they  so  glad  ?  ill  prophets  were 

they  all, 
Spirits  and  men  :  could  none  of  them 

foresee. 
Not  even   thy  wise    father  with    his 

signs 
And  wonders,  what  has  fall'n  upon  the 

realm  ?" 

To    whom    the  novice    garrulously 

again  : 
"  Yea,  one,  a  bard;  of  whom  my  father 

said, 
Full    many  a  noble  war-song  had  he 

sung, 
Ev'n  in  the  presence  of  an  enemy's  fleet, 
Between  the  steep  cliff  and  the  coming 

wave; 
And  many  a  mystic  lay  of  life  and  death 
Had  chanted  on  the  smoky  mountain- 
tops,  [hills. 
When  round  him  bent  the  spirits  of  the 
With  all   their  dewy  hair  blown  back 

like  flame  : 
So  said  my  father — and  that  night  the 

bard 
Sang  Arthur's  glorious  wars,  and  sang 

the  King 
As  wellnigh  more  than  man,  and  rail'd 

at  those 
Who  call'd  him  the  false  son  of  Gor- 

lois : 
For    there   was    no    man  knew  from 

whence  he  came ; 
But  after  tempest,  when  the  long  wave 

broke 
All  down  the  thundering  shores  of  Bude 

and  Bos, 
There  came  a  day  as  still   as   heaven, 

and  then 
They  found   a   naked   child   upon  the 

sands 
Of  dark  Dundagil  by  the  Cornish  sea  ; 
And  that  was  Arthur ;  and  they  foster'd 

him 
Till  he  by  miracle  was  approven  king  : 
And  that  his  grave  should  be  a  mystery 
From  all  men,  like  his  birth ;  and  could 

he  find 


A  woman  in  her  womanhood  as  great 
As  he  was  in   his   manhood,  then,  he 

sang, 
The  twain  together  well  might  change 

the  world. 
But  even  in  the  middle  of  his  song 
He  falter'd,  and  his  hand  fell  from  the 

harp. 
And  pale   he  turn'd,  and   reel'd,  and 

would  have  fall'n. 
But  that  they  stay'dhim  up ;  nor  would 

he  tell 
His   vision  ;    but  what  doubt  that   he 

foresaw 
This  evil  work  of  Lancelot  and   the 

Queen  ?  " 

Then  thought  the  Queen,  "  Lo  !  they 

have  set  her  on, 
Our    simple  seeming  Abbess  and  her 

nuns. 
To  play  upon  me,"  and  bow'dher  head 

nor  spake. 
Whereat  the  novice  crying,  with  clasp'd 

hands, 
Shame  on  her  own  garrulity  garrulously, 
Said  the  good  nuns  would  check  her 

gadding  tongue 
Full  often,  "  And,  sweet  lady,  if  I  seem 
To  vex  an  ear  too  sad  to  listen  to  me, 
Unmannerly,  with  prattling  and  with 

tales 
Which  my  good  father  told  me,  check 

me  too : 
Nor  let  me  shame  my  father's  memory, 

one 
Of  noblest  manners,  tho'  himself  would 

say 
Sir  Lancelot  had  the  noblest :  and  he 

died, 
Kill'd  in  a  tilt,  come  next,  five  summers 

back, 
And  left  me;  but  of  others   who  re- 
main. 
And  of  the   two   first-famed  for  cour- 
tesy— 
And  pray  you  check  me  if  I  ask  amiss — 
But  pray  you,  which  had  noblest,  while 

you  moved 
Among  them,  Lancelot  or  our  lord  the 

King?" 


334 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


Then  the  pale  Queen  look'd  up  and 

answered  her, 
"Sir    Lancelot,    as    became    a    noble 

knight, 
Was   gracious  to  all   ladies,   and   the 

same 
In  open  battle  or  the  tilting-field 
Forbore  his  own  advantage,  and  these 

two  [all ; 

Were  the  most  nobly-manner'd  men  of 
For  manners  are  not  idle,  but  the  fruit 
Of  loyal  nature,  and  of  noble  mind." 

"  Yea,"  said  the  maid,  *'  be  manners 
such  fair  fruit  ? 
Then  Lancelot's  needs  must  be  a  thou- 
sand fold 
Less  noble,  being,  as  all  rumor  runs. 
The    most   disloyal  friend   in   all   the 
world." 

To  which  a  mournful  answer  made 

the  Queen, 
"  O  closed  about  by  narrowing  nunnery- 

walls, 
What  knowest  thou  of  the  world,  and 

all  its  lights 
And  shadows,  all  the  wealth  and  all 

the  woe  ? 
If    ever    Lancelot,    that    most    noble 

knight, 
Were  for  one  hour  less  noble  than  him- 
self, 
Pray  for  him  that  he  scape  the  doom 

of  fire. 
And  weep  for  her,  who  drew  him  to  his 

doom." 

"  Yea,"   said   the   little  novice,    "  I 

pray  for  both ; 
But  I  should  all  as  soon  believe  that 

his. 
Sir  Lancelot's,  were   as  noble   as   the 

King's, 
As   I  could  think,  sweet  lady,  yours 

would  be 
Such  as  they  are,  were  you  the  sinful 

Queen." 

So  she,  like  many  another  babbler, 
hurt 
Whom  "She  would  soothe,  and  harm'd 
where  she  would  heal ; 


For   here   a   sudden   flush  of  wrathful 

heat 
Fired  all  the  pale  face  of  the  Queery 

who  cried, 
"Such  as  thou  art   be   never   maiden 

more 
Forever!    thou    their   tool,  set   on  to 

plague 
And  play  upon,  and  harry  me,  pretty 

spy 
And  traitress."     When  that  storm   of 

anger  brake 
From  .Guinevere,   aghast   the  maiden 

rose. 
White  as  her  veil,  and  stood  before  the 

Queen 
As  tremulously  as  foam  upon  the  beach 
Stands  in  a  wind,  ready  to  break  and 

And  when  the  Queen  had  added  "  Get 

thee  hence  1  " 
Fled  frighted.     Then  that   other    left 

alone 
Sigh'd,  and  began  to  gather  heart  again, 
Saying  in  herself,  "  The  simple,  fearful 

child 
Meant  nothing,  but  my  own  too-fearful 

guilt 
Simpler  than  any  child,  betrays  itself. 
But  help  me,  heaven,   for  surely  I   re- 
pent. 
For    what   is  true  repentance   but   in 

thought — 
Not  e'en  in  inmost  thought   to  think 

again 
The  sins  that  made  the  past  so  pleasant 

to  us : 
And  I  have  sworn  never  to  see  him 

more. 
To  see  him  more." 

And  e'en  in  saying  this, 
Her   memory   from   old   habit    of  the 

mind 
Went  slipping  back  upon  the  golden 

days 
In  which  she  saw  him  first,  when  Lance- 
lot came, 
Reputed  the  best  knight  and  goodliest 

man. 
Ambassador,  to  lead  her  to  his  lord 
Arthur,  and  led  her  forth,  and  far  ahead 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


ZZ. 


Of  his  and  her  retinTie  moving,  they, 
Rapt  in  sweet  thought,  or  lively,  all  on 

love 
And  sport   and  tilts  and  pleasure,  (for 

the  time 
Was  maytime,  and  as  yet  no  sin  was 

dream'd,) 
Rode  under  groves  that  look'd  a  para- 
dise 
Of  blossom,  over  sheets  of  hyacinth 
That  seem'd  the  heavens  uj^breaking 

thro'  the  earth. 
And  on  from  hill  to  hill,  and  every  day 
Beheld  at  noon  in  some  delicious  dale 
The   silk   pavilions    of    King    Arthur 

raised 
For  brief  repast  or  afternoon  repose 
By  couriers  gone  before  ;  and  on  again. 
Till  yet  once  more  ere  set  of  sun  they 

saw 
The  Dragon  of  the  great  Pendragon- 

ship, 
That  crown'd  the  state  pavilion  of  the 

King, 
Blaze  by   the   rushing  brook  or  silent 

well. 

But   when   the    Queen  immersed  in 
such  a  trance, 
And  moving  thro'  the  past  unconscious- 

Came  to  that  point,  when  first  she  saw 

the  King 
Ride  toward  her  from  the  city,  sigh'd 

to  find 
Her  journey   done,   glanced    at    him, 

thought  him  cold, 
High,  self-contain'd,  and  passionless, 

not  like  him, 
"  Not   like   my   Lancelot  " — while  she 

brooded  thus 
And  grew  half-guilty  in  her  thoughts 

again. 
There   rode  an  armed  warrior  to  the 

doors. 
A  murmuring  whisper  thro'  the  nunnery 

ran, 
Then  on  a  sudden  a   cry,  "The  King." 

She  sat 
Stiff-stricken,     listening  ;    but     when 

armed  feet 


Thro'  the  long  gallery  from  the  outer 

doors 
Rang  coming,  prone  from  off  her  sv^at 

she  fell. 
And  groveird  with  her  face  against  the 

floor: 
There   with   her  milkwhite   ai-ms  and 

shadowy  hair 
She  made  her  face  a  darkness  from  the 

King: 
And  in  the  darkness   heard  his  armed 

feet 
Pause  by  her ;  then  came  silence,  then 

a  voice, 
Monotonous  and  hollow  like  a  Ghost's 
Denouncing  judgment,  but  tho'  changed 

the  King's. 

"  Liest  thou  here  so  low,  .the  child  of 

one 
I   honor'd,    happy,    dead    before    thy 

shame  ? 
Well  is  it  that  no  child  is  born  of  thee. 
The  children  born  of  thee  are  sword 

and  fire. 
Red  ruin,  and  the  breaking  up  of  laws, 
The  craft  of  kindred  and  the   Godless 

hosts  [  Sea. 

Of  heathen  swarming  o'er  the  Northern 
Whom   I,  while  yet  Sir  Lancelot,  my 

right  arm. 
The    mightiest   of  my  knights   abode 

with  me, 
Have  everywhere  about  this  land  of 

Christ 
In  twelve   great  battles  ruining  over- 
thrown. 
And  knowest  thou  now  from  whence  I 

come — from  him, 
From  waging  bitter  war  with  him :  and 

he. 
That  did  not  shun  to  smite  me  in  worse 

way. 
Had  yet  that  grace  of  courtesv  in  him 

left. 
He  spared  to  lift  his  hand  against  the 

King 
Who  made  him  knight :   but  many  a 

knight  was  s^ain  ; 
And  many  more,  and  all  his  kith  anc} 

kin 


B3^ 


TDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


Clave  to  him,  and  abode  in  his  own 

land. 
And  many  more  when  Modred  raised 

revolt, 
Forgetful   of  their    troth    and  fealty, 

clave 
To  Modred,  and  a  remnant  stays  with 

me. 
And  of  this  remnant  will   I  leave  a 

part, 
True  men  who  love  me  still,  for  whom 

I  live. 
To  guard  thee  in  the  wild  hour  coming 

on, 
Lest  but  a  hair  of  this  low  head  be 

harm'd. 
Fear  not:   thou  shalt  be  guarded  till 

my  death. 
Ilowbeit  I  know,  if  ancient  prophecies 
Have  err'd  not,  that  I  march  to  meet 

my  doom. 
Thou  hast  not  made  my  life  so  sweet 

to  me, 
That  I  the  King  should  greatly  care  to 

live; 
For  thou  hast  spoilt  the  purpose  of  my 

life. 
Bear  with  me  for  the  last  time  while  I 

show, 
Ev'n  for  thy  sake,  the  sin  which  thou 

hast  sinn'd. 
For  when  the  Roman  left  us,  and  their 

law 
Relax'd   its   hold    upon    us,   and  the 

ways 
Were  fiU'd  with  rapine,  here  and  there 

a  deed 
Of  prowess  done  redress' d  a  random 

wrong. 
Bat  I  was  first  of  all  the  kings  who 

drew 
The   knighthood-errant  of  this  realm 

and  all 
The  realms  together  under  me,  their 

Head, 
In  that  fair  order  of  my  Table  Round, 
A  glorious    company,   the    flower    of 

men, 
To  serve   as  model    for    the  mighty 

world. 
And  be  the  fair  beginning  of  a  time. 


I  made  them  lay  their  hands  in  mine 

and  swear 
To  reverence  the  King,  as  if  he  were 
Their  conscience,  and  their  conscience 

as  their  King, 
To  break  the  heathen  and  uphold  the 

Christ, 
To    ride     abroad    redressing    human 

wrongs. 
To  speak  no  slander,  no,  nor  listen  to 

it, 
To  lead  sweet  lives  in  purest  chastity, 
To  love  one   maiden   only,  cleave  to 

her. 
And   worship   her  by  years  of  noble 

deeds, 
Until    they  won    her;    for    indeed    I 

knew 
Of    no    more    subtle     master     under 

heaven 
Than   is    the    maiden    passion  for  a 

maid, 
Not   only  to  keep   down   the  base   in 

man. 
But  teach  high  thought  and   amial)]^ 

words 
And   courtliness,   and    the    desire    of 

fame, 
And  love  of  truth,  and  all  that  makes 

a  man. 
And   all   this   throve   until    I  wedded 

thee! 
Believing  "lo  mine  helpmate,  one  to 

feel 
My  purpose  and  rejoicing  in  my  joy.' 
Then  came  thy  shameful  sin  with  I.^n 

celot ; 
Then   came  the  sin  of  Tristram  and 

Isolt ; 
Then  others,  following  these  my  might- 
iest knights. 
And  drawing  foul  ensample  from  fair 

names, 
Sinn'd   also,  till   the  loathsome  o])po- 

site 
Of  all  my  heart  had  destined  did  ob- 
tain. 
And  all  thro'  thee  \  so  that  this  life  of 

mine 
I  guard  as  God's  high  gift  from  scathe 

and  wrong, 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


ZZ1 


Not  greatly  care  to  lose;   but  rather 

think 
How  sad  it  were  for  Arthur,  should  he 

live, 
To  sit  once  more  within  his  lonely 

hall, 
And  miss  the  wonted  number  of  my 

knights, 
And  miss  to  hear  high  talk  of  noble 

deeds 
As  in  the  golden  days  before  thy  sin. 
For  which  of  us,  who  might  be  left, 

could  speak 
Of  the  pure  heart,  nor  seem  to  glance 

at  thee  ?  [Usk 

And  in  thy  bowers  of  Camelot  or  of 
Thy  shadow  still   would  glide    from 

room  to  room. 
And  I  should  evermore  be  vext  with 

thee 
In  hanging  robe  or  vacant  ornament, 
Or  ghostly  footfall  echoing    on    the 

stair. 
For  think  not,  tho'  thou  wouldst  not 

love  thy  Lord, 
Thy  lord  has  wholly  lost  his  love  for 

thee. 
I  am  not  made  of  so  slight  elements. 
Yet  must  I  leave  thee,  woman,  to  thy 

shame. 
I  hold  that  man  the  worst  of  public 

foes 
Who  either  for  his  own  or  children's 

sake. 
To  save  his  blood  from  scandal,  lets 

the  wife 
Whom  he  knows  false,  abide  and  rule 

the  house : 
For  being  thro'  his  cowardice  allow'd 
Her    station,    taken    everywhere    for 

pure, 
She  like  a  new  disease,  unknown  to 

men. 
Creeps,  no  precaution  used,  among  the 

crowd. 
Makes  wicked  lightnings  of  her  eyes, 

and  saps 
The  fealty  of  our  friends,  and  stirs  the 

pulse 
With  devil's  leaps,  and  poisons  half 

the  young. 


Worst  of  the  worst  were  that  man  he 

that  reigns  ! 
Better  the   King's  waste   hearth  and 

aching  heart 
Than  thou  reseated  in   thy  place   ol 

light. 
The  mockery  of  my  people,  and  their 

bane." 

He  paused,  and  in  the  pause  she 
crept  an  inch 

Nearer,  and  laid  her  hands  about  his 
feet. 

Far  off  a  solitary  trumpet  blew. 

Then  waiting  by  the  doors  the  war- 
horse  neigh  d 

As  at  a  friend's  voice,  and  he  spake 
again : 

"  Yet  think  not  that  I  come  to  urge 

thy  crimes, 
I  did  not  come  to  curse  thee,  Guinevere, 
I,  whose  vast  pity  almost  makes  me 

die 
To  see  thee,  laying  there  thy  golden 

head, 
My  pride  in  happier  summers  at  my 

feet. 
The  wrath  which  forced  my  thoughts 

on  that  fierce  law. 
The  doom  of  treason  and  the  flaming 

death, 
(When  first  I  learnt  thee  hidden  here) 

is  past. 
The  pang — which  while  I  weigh'd  thy 

heart  with  one 
Too  wholly  true  to  dream  untruth  in 

thee, 
Made  my  tears  burn — is  also  past,  in 

part. 
And  all  is  past,  the  sin  is  sinn'd,  and  I, 
Lo !  I  forgive  thee,  as  Eternal  God 
Forgives:  do  thou  for  thine  own  soul 

the  rest. 
But  how  to  take  last  leave  of  all  I 

loved  .-* 
O  golden  hair,  with  which  I  used  to 

play 
Not    knowing !      O   imperial-moulded 

form. 
And    beauty    such  as    never    women 

wore. 


338 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


Until  it  came  a  kingdom's  curse  with 

thee— 
I  cannot  touch  thy  lijfs,  they  are  not 

mine, 
But  Lancelot's :  nay,  they  never  were 

the  King's. 
I  cannot  take  thy  hand;  that  too  is 

flesh, 
And  in  the  flesh  thou  hast  sinn'd ;  and 

mine  own  flesh, 
Here  looking  down  on  thine  own  pol- 
luted, cries 
*  I  loathe  thee ; '  yet  not  less,  O  Guine- 
vere, 
For  I  was  ever  virgin  save  for  thee. 
My  love  thro'  flesh  hath  wrought  into 

my  life 
So  far,  that  my  doom  is,  I  love  thee 

still.  [still. 

Let  no  man  dream  but  that  I  love  thee 
Perchance,  and  so  thou  purify  thy  soul. 
And  so  thou  lean  on  our  fair  father 

Christ, 
Hereafter  in  that  world  where  all  are 

pure 
"We  two  may  meet  before  high  God, 

and  thou 
Wilt  spring  to  me,  and  claim  me  thine, 

and  know 
I   am   thine    husband — not   a  smaller 

soul, 
Nor  Lancelot,  nor  another.    Leave  me 

that, 
I  charge   thee,  my  last   hope.      Now 

must  I  hence. 
Thro'  the  thick  night  I  hear  the  trum- 
pet blow : 
They  summon  me  their  King  to  lead 

mine  hosts 
Far  down  to  that  great  battle  in  the 

west, 
Where  I  must  strike  against  my  sister's 

son. 
Leagued  with  the  lords  of  the  White 

Horse  and  knights 
Once  mine,  and  strike  him  dead,  and 

meet  myself 
Death,  or  I  know  not  what  mysterious 

doom. 
And  thou  remaining  here  wilt  learn  the 

event : 


But  hither  shall  I  never  come  again, 
Never   lie   by  thy   side,  see   thee   no 

more. 
Farewell ! " 

And  while  she  grovell'd  at  his  feet, 
She  felt  the  King's  breath  wander  o'er 

her  neck. 
And,  in  the   darkness  o'er  her  fallen 

head. 
Perceived  the  waving  of  his  hands  that 

blest. 

Then,    listening    till    those    armed 

steps  were  gone. 
Rose    the    pale    Queen,   and   in    her 

anguish  found 
The    casement :    "  Peradventure,"    so 

she  thought, 
"  If  I  might  see  his  face,  and  not  be 

seen." 
And  lo,  he  sat  on   horseback  at   the 

door! 
And  near  him  the  sad  nuns  with  each 

a  light 
Stood,  and  he  gave  them  charge  about 

the  Queen, 
To  guard  and  foster  her  forevermore- 
And  while  he  spake  to  these  his  helm 

was  lower'd. 
To  which  for  crest  the  golden  dragon 

clung  [face. 

Of  Britain  ;   so   she   did   not   see   the 
Which  then  was  as  an  angel's,  but  she 

saw, 
Wet  with  the  mists  and  smitten  by  the 

lights, 
The  Dragon  of  the  great  Pendragon- 

ship  [fire. 

Blaze,  making  all  the  night  a  steam  of 
And  even  then  he  turn'd;  and  more 

and  more 
The   moony  vapor   rolling  round  the 

King, 
Who  seem'd  the  phantom  of  a  Giant 

in  it, 
Enwound  him  fold  by  fold,  and  made 

him  gray 
And    grayer,   till   himself    became   as 

mist 
Before   her,  moving  ghostlike  to  his 

doom. 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


339 


Then  she  stretch'd  out  her  arms  and 

cried  aloud, 
"O  Arthur   "  there  her  voice  break 

suddenly, 
Then — as  a  stream  that  spouting  from 

a  cliff 
Fills  in  mid-air,  but  gathering  at  the 

base 
Re-makes  itself,  and  flashes  down  the 

vale — 
Went  on  in  passionate  utterance. 

**  Gone — my  lord ! 
Gone  thro'  my  sin  to  slay  and  to  be 

slain  ! 
And  he  forgave  me,  and  I  could  not 

speak. 
Farewell  ?    I  should  have  answer'd  his 

farewell. 
His    mercy  choked    me.      Gone,  my 

lord  the  King, 
My  own  true  lord!   how  dare   I   call 

him  mine  ? 
The  shadow  of  another  cleaves  to  me, 
And  makes  me  one  pollution  :  he,  the 

King, 
Call'd  me  polluted  :  shall  I  kill  my- 
self ?  [sin, 
What  help  in  that }    I  cannot  kill  my 
If  soul   be   soul;    nor   can  I  kill   my 

shame ; 
No,  nor  by  living  can  I  live  it  down. 
The  days  will  grow  to  weeks,  the  weeks 

to  months, 
The  months  will  add  themselves  and 

make  the  years, 
The  years  will  roll  into  the  centuries, 
And  mine  will  ever  be  a  name  of  scorn. 
X  must  not  dwel    on  that  defeat  of 

fame. 
Let  the  world  be;  that  is  but  of  the 

world. 
What  else  >  what  hope  ?  I  think  there 

was  a  hope, 
Except  he  mock'd  me  when  he  spake 

of  hope ; 
His  hope  he  call'd  it;  but  he   never 

mocks, 
For    mockery  is    the    fume  of    little 

hearts. 
And  blessed  be  the  King,  who  hath 

forgiven 


My  wickedness  to  him,  and  left   me 

hope 
That  in  mine  own  heart   I  ean  \\\q. 

down  sin 
And  be   his    mate    hereafter    in    the 

heavens 
Before  high  God.    Ah  great  and  gen- 
tle lord, 
Who  wast,  as  is  the  conscience  of  a 

saint 
Among    his    warring    senses,   to    thy 

knights — 
To  whom  my  false  voluptuous  pride, 

that  took 
Full  easily  all  impressions  from  below, 
Would  not  look  up,  or  half-despised 

the  height 
To  which  I  would  not  or  I  could  not 

climb — 
I  thought  I  could  not  breathe  in  that 

fine  air 
That  pure  severity  of  perfect  light — 
I  wanted  warmth  and   color  which  I 

found 
In  Lancelot — now  I  see  thee  what  thou 

art, 
Thou  art  the  highest  and  most  human 

too,  [none 

Not  Lancelot,  nor  another.     Is  there 
Will  tell  the  King  I  love  him  tho'  so 

late? 
Now — ere  he  goes  to  the  great  Battle  ? 

none : 
Myself  must  tell  him  in  that  purer  life, 
But  now  it  were  too  daring.     Ah  my 

God, 
What  might  I  not  have  made  of  thy 

fair  world, 
Had  I  but  loved  thy  highest  creature 

here  ? 
It  was  my  duty  to  have  loved  the  high- 
est: 
It  surely  was  my  profit  had  I  known  : 
It  would  have  been  my  pleasure  had  I 

seen. 
We  needs  must  love  the  highest  when 

we  see  it. 
Not  Lancelot,  nor  another." 

Here  her  hand 
Grasp'd,  made  her  veil  her  eyes :  she 

look'd  and  saw 


340 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING, 


The  novice,  weeping,  suppliant,  and 
said  to  her, 

"  Yea,  little  maid,  for  am  /  not  for- 
given ? "  [nuns 

Then    glancing   up    beheld   the    holy 

All  round  her,  weeping ;  and  her  heart 
was  loosed 

Within  her,  and  she  wept  with  these 
and  said  : 

"  Ye  know  me  then,  that  wicked  one, 
who  broke 

The  vast  design  and  purpose  of  the 
King. 

0  shut  me  round  with  narrowing  nun- 

nery-walls, 
Meek  maidens,  from  the  voices  crying 
'  Shame.' 

1  must  not  scorn  myself:  he  loves  me 

still.  [still. 

Let  no  one  dream  but  that  he  loves  me 
So  let  me,  if  you  do  not  shudder  at  me 
Nor  shun  to  call  me  sister,  dwell  with 

you: 
Wear  black  and  white,  and  be  a  nun 

like  you ; 
Fast  with  your  fasts,  not  feasting  with 

your  feasts ; 
Grieve  with  your  griefs,  not  grieving  at 

your  joys. 
But  not  rejoicing;  mingle  with  your 

rites ; 
Pray  and  be  prayed  for :  lie  before 

your  shrines ; 
Do  each  low  office  of  your  holy  house ; 
Walk  your  dim  cloister,  and  distribute 

dole 
To  poor  sick  people,  richer  in  his  e^-es 
Who  ransom'd  us,  and  haler  too  than  I ; 
And   treat  their  loathsome  hurts  and 

heal  mine  own ; 
And  so  wear  out  in  almsdeed  and  in 

prayer 
The  sombre  close  of  that  voluptuous 

day. 
Which  wrought  the  ruin  of  my  lord  the 

King." 

She   said:  they  took  her  to  them- 
selves ,  and  she 
Still   hoping,  fearing  "  Is   it  yet  too 
late  ?  " 


Dwelt   with   them,   till   in   time   theii 

Abbess  died. 
Then  she,  for  her  good  deeds  and  her 

pure  life. 
And  for  the  power  of  ministration  in 

her, 
And  likewise  for  the  high  rank  she  had 

borne. 
Was  chosen  Abbess,  there,  an  Abbess 

lived 
For  three  brief  years,  and   there,  an 

Abbess,  past 
To  wKereTieyond  these  voices  there  is 

peace.    , 


ENOCH    ARDEN. 

Long  lines  of  cliff  breaking  have  left 

a  chasm ; 
And  in  the  chasm  are  foam  and  yellow 

sands ; 
Beyond,  red    roofs    about  a    narrow 

wharf 
In  cluster ;  then  a  moulder'd  church ; 

and  higher 
A  long  street  climbs  to  one  tall-tower'd 

mill; 
And  high  in  heaven  behind  it  a  gray 

down 
With  Danish  barrows;  and  a  hazel- 
wood, 
By  autumn  nutters  haunted,  flourishes 
Green  in  a  cuplike  hollow  of  the  down. 

Here  on  this  beach  a  hundred  years 

ago, 
Three  children  of  three  houses,  Annie 

Lee, 
The  prettiest  little  damsel  in  the  port, 
And  Philip  Ray,  the  miller's  only  son, 
And   Enoch   Arden,  a  rough   sailor's 

lad 
Made  orphan  by  a  wmter  shipwreck, 

play'd 
Among  the  waste  and  lumber  of  the 

shore. 
Hard  coils  of  cordage,  swarthy  fishing 

nets, 
Anchors  of  rusty  fluke,  and  boats  up 

drawn; 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KTNG. 


341 


And  built  their  castles  of  dissolving 
sand 

To  watch  them  overflovr'd,  or  follow- 
ing up 

And  flying  the  white  breaker,  daily 
left 

The  little  footprint  daily  wash'd  away. 

A  narrow  cave  ran  in  beneath  the 

cliff: 
In  this  the  children  play'd  at  keeping 

house. 
Enoch  was   host   one   day,  Philip  the 

next, 
While  Annie  still  was  mistress ;  but  at 

times 
Enoch    would   hold   possession   for  a 

week : 
"  This  is  my  house  and  this  my  little 

wife.'* 
"  Mine   too,"  said   Philip,  "  turn  and 

turn  about :  " 
When,    if     they     quarrell'd,     Enoch 

stronger-made 
Was  master :  then  would  Philip,  his 

blue  eyes 
All  flooded  with  the  helpless  wrath  of 

tears, 
Shriek  out,  "  I  hate  you,  Enoch,"  and 

at  this 
The  little  wife  would  weep  for  com- 
pany, 
And  pray  them  not  to  quarrel  for  her 

sake, 
And   say  she  would  be   little  wife  to" 

both. 

But  when  the  dawn  of  rosy  child- 
hood past. 

And  the  new  warmth  of  life's  ascend- 
ing sun 

Was  felt  by  either,  either  fixt  his  heart 

On  that  one  girl ;  and  Enoch  spoke  his 
love. 

But  Philip  loved  in  silence;  and  the 
girl 

Seem'd  kinder  unto  Philip  than  to 
him; 

But  she  loved  Enoch ;  tho'  she  knew 
it  not, 

And  would  if  ask'd  deny  it.  Enoch 
set 


A  purpose  evermore  before  his  eyes. 

To  hoard  all  savings  to  the  uttermost. 

To  purchase  his  own  boat,  and  make  a 
home 

For  Annie  ;  and  so  prosper'd  that  at 
last 

A  luckier  or  a  bolder  fisherman, 

A  carefuller  in  peril,  did  not  breathe 

For  leagues  along  that  breaker-beaten 
coast 

Than  Enoch.  Likewise  had  he  served 
a  year 

On  board  a  merchantman,  and  made 
himself 

Full  sailor;  and  he  thrice  had  pluck'd 
a  life 

From  the  dread  sweep  of  the  down- 
streaming  seas : 

And  all  men  look'd  upon  him  favor- 
ably : 

And  ere  he  touch'd  his  one-and-twen- 
tieth  May, 

He  purchased  his  own  boat,  and  made 
a  home  [up 

For  Annie,  neat  and  nestlike,  half-way 

The  narrow  street  that  clamber'd  to- 
ward the  mill. 

Then,  on  a  golden  autumn  eventide, 
The  younger  people  making  holiday, 
With  bag  and  sack  and  basket,  great 

and  small. 
Went    nutting  to  the    hazels,   Philip 

stay'd 
(His    father   lying  sick  and  needing 

him) 
An  hour  behind ;  but  as  he  climb'd  the 

hill, 
Just  where  the  prone  edge  of  the  wood 

began 
To  feather  toward  the  hollow,  saw  the 

pair, 
Enoch    and    Annie,    sitting     hand-in- 
hand. 
His  large  gray  eyes  and  weather-beaten 

face 
All-kindled  by  a  still  and  sacred  fire, 
That   burned  as  on  an  altar.     Philip 

look'd, 
And  in  their  eyes  and  faces  read  his 

doom ; 


342 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


Then,   as   their   faces   drew   together, 

groan'd 
And   slipt  aside,  and  like  a  wounded 

life 
Crept  down  into  the  hollows  of  the 

wood  ; 
There,  while  the  rest  were  loud  with 

merry-making, 
Had  his  dark  hour  unseen,  and  rose 

and  past 
Bearing  a  lifelong  hunger  in  his  heart. 

So  these  were  wed,  and  merrily  rang 
the  bells. 

And  merrily  ran  the  years,  seven  happy 
years, 

Seven  happy  years  of  health  and  com- 
petence, 

And  mutual  love  and  honorable  toil ; 

With  children  ;  first  a  daughter.  In 
him  woke,  [wish 

With  his  first  babe's  first  cry,  the  noble 

To  save  all  earnings  to  the  uttermost, 

And  give  his  child  a  better  bringing- 
up 

Than  his  had  been,  or  hers ;  a  wish 
renew'd. 

When  two  years  after  came  a  boy  to 
be 

The  rosy  idol  of  her  solitudes, 

While  Enoch  was  abroad  on  wrathful 
seas. 

Or  often  journeying  landward ;  for  in 
truth 

Enoch's  white  horse,  and  Enoch's 
ocean-spoil 

In  ocean-smelling  osier,  and  his  face, 

Rough-redden'd  with  a  thousand  win- 
ter-gales, 

Not  only  to  the  market-cross  were 
known. 

But  in  the  leafy  lanes  behind  the  down. 

Far  as  the  portal-warding  lion-whelp, 

And  peacock-yewtree  of  the  lonely 
Hall, 

Whose  Friday  fare  was  Enoch's  minis- 
tering. 

Then  came  a  change,  as  all  things 
human  change. 
Ten  miles  to  northward  of  the  narrow 
port 


Open'd  a   larger  haven  :  thither  used 
Enoch  at  times  to  go  by  land  or  sea ; 
And  once  when  there,  and  clambering 

on  a  mast 
In  harbor,  by  mischance  he  slipt  and 

fell : 
A  limb  was  broken  when  they  lifted 

him  ; 
And  while  he  lay  recovering  there,  his 

wife 
Bore  him  another  son,  a  sickly  one  : 
Another    hand   crept   too    across   his 

trade 
Taking  her  bread  and  theirs  :  and  on 

him  fell,  [man, 

Altho'  a  grave  and  staid  God-fearing 
Yet   lying    thus    inactive,   doubt   and 

gloom. 
He  seem'd,   as  in  a  nightmare  of  the 

night, 
To  see  his  children  leading  evermore 
Low  miserable  lives  of  hand-to-mouth, 
And  her,  he  loved,  a  beggar  :  then  he 

pray'd 
"  Save  them  from  this,  whatever  comes 

to  me." 
And  while   he   pray'd,  the   master   of 

that  ship 
Enoch  had  served  in,  hearing  his  mis- 
chance, 
Came,  for  he  knew  the  man  and  valued 

him, 
Reporting  of  his  vessel  China-bound, 
And  wanting  yet  a  boatswain.     Would 

he  go  ? 
There  yet  were  many  weeks  before  she 

sail'd, 
Sail'd  from  this  port.     Would  Enoch 

have  the  place  ? 
And  Enoch  all  at  once  assented  to  it. 
Rejoicing  at  that  answer  to  his  prayer. 

So  now  that  shadow  of  mischance 

appear'd 
No  graver  than   as  when   some   little 

cloud 
Cuts  off  the  fiery  highway  of  the  sun, 
And  isles  a  light  in  the  offing  :  yet  the 

wife — 
When   he   was  gone — the  children— • 

what  to  do  ? 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


343 


Then  Enoch  lay  long-pondering  on  his 

plans 
To  sell  the  boat — and  yet  he  loved  her 
well — 

How  many  a  rough  sea  had  he  weath- 
er'd  in  her ! 

He   knew  her,  as  a  horseman   knows 
his  horse — 

And  yet  to  sell  her — then  with  what 
she  brought 

Buy  goods  and  stores — set  Annie  forth 
in  trade 

With  all  that  seamen  needed  or  their 
wives — 

So  might  she  keep  the  house  while  he 
was  gone. 

Should  he  not  trade  himself  out  yon- 
der? go 

This  voyage    more    than   once  ?    yea 
twice  or  thrice — 

As  oft  as  needed — last,  returning  rich, 

Become  the  master  of  a  larger  craft, 

With  fuller  profits  lead  an  easier  life, 

Have  all  his  pretty  young  ones  edu- 
cated, 

And  pass  his  days  in  peace  among  his 
own 
Thus  Enoch  in  his  heart  determined 
all      _ 

Then  moving  homeward  came  on  Annie 
pale, 

Nursing  the  sickly  babe,   her  latest- 
born. 

Forward  she  started  with  a  happy  cry, 

And  laid  the  feeble  infant  in  his  arms ; 

Whom  Enoch  took,  and  handled  all  his 
limbs. 

Appraised    his    weight,   and    fondled 
fatherlike. 

But  had  no  heart  to  break  his  purposes 

To  Annie,  till  the  morrow,  when  he 
spoke. 

Then  first  since  Enoch's  golden  ring 
had  girt 
Her  finger,    Annie  fought  against   his 

will: 
Yet  not  with  brawling  opposition  she, 
But  manifold  entreaties,  many  a  tear. 
Many  a  sad  kiss   by  day  by  night  re- 
newed 


(Sure  that  all  evil  would  come  out  of 

it) 
Besought  him,  supplicating,  if  he  cared 
For  her  or  his  dear  children,  not  to  go. 
He  not  for  his  own  self  caring  but  her, 
Her  and  her  children,  let  her  plead  in 

vain; 
So  grieving  held  his  will,  and  bore  it 

thro'. 

For  Enoch  parted  with  his  old  sea- 
friend, 
Bought  Annie  goods  and  stores,  and 

set  his  hand 
To  fit  their  little  str«etward  sitting- 
room 
With  shelf  and  corner  for  the  goods 

and  stores. 
So  all  day  long  till   Enoch's  last  at 

home, 
Shaking  their  pretty  cabin,  hammer  and 

axe. 
Auger  and  saw,  while  Annie  seem'd  to 

hear 
Her  own  death-scaffold  raising,  shrill'd 

and  rang. 
Till  this  was  ended,  and  his  careful 

hand, — 
The  space  was  narrow, — having  order'd 

all 
Almost  as  neat  and  close  as  Nature 

packs 
Her  blossom  or  her  seedling,  paused  ; 

and  he. 
Who  needs  would  work  for  Annie  to 

the  last, 
Ascending  tired,  heavily  slept  till  morn. 

And  Enoch  faced  his  morning  of 
farewell 

Brightly  and  boldly.  All  his  Annie's 
fears. 

Save  as  his  Annie's,  were  a  laughter  to 
him. 

Yet  Enoch  as  a  brave  God-fearing  man 

Bow'd  himself  down,  and  in  that  mys- 
tery 

Where  God-in-man  is  one  with  man-in- 
God, 

Pray'd  for  a  blessing  on  his  wife  and 
babes 


344 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


Whatever  came  to  him :  and  then  he 

said,  [God 

"Annie,  this  voyage  by  the  grace  of 
Will  bring  fair  weather  yet  to  all  of  us. 
Keep  a  clean  hearth  and  a  clear   fire 

for  me. 
For  I'll  be  back,  my  girl,  before  you 

know  it," 
Then   lightly    rocking    baby's    cradle, 

"  and  he, 
This  pretty,  puny,  weakly  little  one, — 
Nay — for  I  love  him  all  the  better  for 

it- 
God  bless  him,  he  shall  sit  upon  my 

knees  [parts. 

And  I  will  tell  him  tales  of  foreign 
And   make  him   merry   when  I   come 

home  again. 
Come  Annie,  come,  cheer  up  before  I 

go." 

Him  running  on  thus  hopefully  she 
heard. 

And  almost  hoped  herself ;  but  when 
he  turn'd 

The  current  of  his  talk  to  graver  things 

In  sailor  fashion  roughly  sermonizing 

On  providence  and  trust  in  Heaven, 
she  heard, 

Heard  and  not  heard  him ;  as  the  vil- 
lage girl. 

Who  sets  her  pitcher  underneath  the 
spring. 

Musing  on  him  that  used  to  fill  it  for 
her. 

Hears  and  not  nears,  and  lets  it  over- 
flow. 

At  length  she  spoke,  "  O  Enoch,  you 

are  wise ; 
And  yet    for   all    vour   wisdom    well 

know  I 
That  I  shall   look  upon  your  face   no 

more." 

"Well  then,"  said  Enoch,  "I  shall 

look  on  yours. 
Annie,  the  ship  I  sail  in  passes  here 
(He    named    the    day) ;    get    you    a 

seaman's  glass. 
Spy  out  my  face,  and  laugh  at  all  your 

fears," 


But  when  the  last  of  those  last  n-o« 

ments  came, 
"Annie,  my   girl,  cheer  up,  be   com^ 

forted, 
Look  to   the   babes,  and   till  I   come 

again. 
Keep  everything  shipshape,  for  I  musrt 

go- 
And  fear  no  more  forme ;  or  if  you  tear 
Cast   all    your    cares   on    God;    that 

anchor  holds. 
Is  He  not  yonder  in  those  uttermost 
Parts  of  the  morning  .?  if  I  flee  to  these 
Can    I  go  from  Him  ?  and  the  sea  is 

His, 
The  sea  is  His  ;  He  made  it." 

Enoch  rose, 
Cast  his  strong  arms  about  his  droop- 
ing wife. 
And   kiss'd   his  wonder-stricken   little 

ones ; 
But  for  the  third,  the  sickly  one,  who 

slept 
After  a  night  of  feverous  wakefulness, 
When  Annie  would   have  raised   him 

Enoch  said, 
"  Wake  him  not ;  let  him  sleep ;  how 

should  the  child 
Remember  this .'' "   and  kiss'd  him  in 

his  cot. 
But   Annie  from  her  baby's  forehead 

dipt 
A  tiny  curl,  and  gave  it :  this  he  kept 
Thro'  all  his  future ;  but  now  hastily 

caught 
His  bundle,  waved  his  hand,  and  went 

his  way. 

She  when  the  day,  thut  Enoch  men^ 
tion'd,  came, 

Borrow'd  a  glass,  but  all  in  vain :  per- 
haps 

She  could  not  fix  the  glass  to  suit  her 
eye ; 

Perhaps  her  eye  was  dim,  hand  tremu- 
lous; 

She  saw  him  not :  and  while  he  stood 
on  deck 

Waving,  the  moment  and  the  vessel 
past. 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


345 


Ev'n  to  the  last  dip  of  the  vanishing 

sail 
She  watch'd  it,  and  departed  weeping 

for  him , 
Then,  tho'  she  mourn'd  his  absence  as 

his  grave,  [his, 

Set  her  sad  will  no  less  to  chime  with 
IJut  throve  not  in  her  trade,  not  being 

,  bred 
To  barter,  nor  compensating  the  want 
By  shrewdness,  neither  capable  of  lies. 
Nor  asking  overmuch  and  taking  less, 
And   still    foreboding    "  What   would 

Enoch  say  ? " 
For  more  than  once,  in  days  of  difficulty 
And  pressure,  had  she  sold  her  wares 

for  less 
'Than  what  she  gave  in  buying  what  she 

sold : 
She  fail'd  and  sadden'd  knowing   it ; 

and  thus, 
Expectant  of  that  news  which  never 

came, 
Gain'd  for  her  own  a  scanty  sustenance, 
And  lived  a  life  of  silent  melancholy. 

Now  the  third  child  was  sickly  born 

and  grew 
Yet  sicklier,  tho'  the  mother  cared  for 

it 
"With all  a  mother's  care:  nevertheless, 
Whether  her  business  often  called  her 

from  it, 
Or  thro'  the  want  of  what  is  needed 

most, 
Or  means  to  pay  the  voice  who  best 

could  tell 
What  most  it  needed — howsoe'er    it 

was. 
After  a  lingering, — ere  she  was  aware, — 
Like  the  caged  bird  escaping  suddenly. 
The  little  innocent  soul  flitted  away. 

In    that    same  week    when    Annie 

buried  it, 
Philip's  true  heart,  which  hunger'd  for 

her  peace 
(Since   Enoch  left  he   had  not  look'd 

upon  her), 
Bmote  him,  as   having  kept  aloof  so 

long. 


"  Surely,"  said  Philip,  "  I  may  see  her 

now. 
May  be  some  little  comfort;"    there- 
fore went. 
Past  thro'  the  solitary  room  in  front. 
Paused  for  a  moment  at  an  inner  door, 
Then    struck  it   thrice,   and,    no    one 

opening, 
Enter'd;    but  Annie,  seated   with   her 

grief. 
Fresh  from  the  burial  of  her  little  one, 
Cared  not  to  look  on  any  human  face. 
But  turn'd  her  own  toward  the  wall  and 

wept. 
Then    Philip   standing  up   said  falter- 

ingly, 
Annie,  I  came  to  ask  a  favor  of  you." 
He  spoke  ;  the  passion  in  her  moan'd 

reply, 
"  Favor  from  one  so  sad  and  so  forlorn 
As  I  am  ! "  half  abash'd  him ;  yet  un- 

ask'd. 
His  bashfulness  and  tenderness  at  war, 
He  sits  himself  beside  her,  saying  to 

her 

"  I  came  to  speak  to  you  of  what  he 
wish'd, 
Enoch,  your  husband  :  I  have  ever  said 
You  chose  the  best  among  us — a  strong 

man: 
For  where  he  fixt  his  heart  he  set  his 

hand 

To  do  the  thing  he  will'd,  and  bore  it 

thro'.  [way, 

And   wherefore  did  he  go  this  weary 

And  leave  you  lonely .''  not  to  see  the 

world — 
For  pleasure  ? — nay,  but  for  the  where- 
withal 
To  give  his  babes  a  better  bringing-up 
Than  his  had  been,  or  yours:  that  was 

his  wish. 
And  if  he  comes  again,  vext  will  he  be 
To  find   the   precious  morning   hours 

were  lost. 
And  it  would  vex  him  even  in  his  grave. 
If  he  could  know  his  babes  were  run- 
ning wild 
Like  cotts  about  the  wa«t.:.     So,  An*\ie, 
now — 


346 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


Have  we  not  known  each  other  all  our 

lives? 
I  do  beseech  you  by  the  love  you  bear 
Him  and   his  children   not  to  say  me 

nay — 
For,   if  you   will,  when   Enoch  comes 

again 
Why  then  he  shall  repay  you — if  you 

will, 
Annie — for  I  am  rich  and  well-to-do. 
Now  let  me  put  the  boy  and  girl  to 

school : 
This  is  the  favor  I  came  to  ask." 

Then  Annie  with  her  brows  against 
the  wall 

Answer'd,  *'  I  cannot  look  you  in  the 
face  ; 

I  seem  so  foolish  and  so  broken  down  ; 

When  you  came  in  my  sorrow  broke 
me  down ; 

And  now  I  think  your  kindness  breaks 
me  down  ; 

But  Enoch  lives ;  that  is  borne  in  on 
me  ; 

He  will  repay  you:  money  can  be  re- 
paid ; 

Not  kindness  such  as  yours." 

And  Philip  ask'd 
"  Then  you  will  let  me,  Annie  ? " 

There  she  turn'd, 
She  rose  and  fixt  her  swimming  eyes 

upon  him^ 
And  dwelt  a  moment  on  his  kindly  face, 
Then   calling  down  a  blessing  on   his 

head 
Caught  at  his  hand  and  wrung  it  pas- 
sionately, 
And  past  into  the  little  garth  beyond. 
So  lifted  up  in  spirit  he  moved  away. 

Then  Philip  put  the  boy  and  girl  to 

school, 
And  bought  them  needful  books,  and 

every  way, 
IJke  one  who  does  his  duty  by  his  own, 
Made    himself    theirs;    and    tho'    for 

Annie's  sake, 
Fearing  the  lazy  goss-ip  of  the  port, 


He   oft  denied  his  heart  his  dearest 

wish, 
And  seldom  crossed  her  threshold,  yet 

he  sent 
Gifts  by  the  children,  garden-herbs  and 

fruit. 
The  late  and  early  roses  from  his  wall, 
Or  conies  from  the  down,  and  now  and 

then,  [meal 

With  some  pretext  of  fineness  in  the 
To  save  the  offence  of  charitable,  flour 
From  his  tall  mill  that  whistled  on  the 

waste. 

But  Philip  did  not  fathom  Annie's 

mind : 
Scarce  could  the  woman  when  he  came 

upon  her, 
Out  of  full  heart  and  boundless  grati- 
tude 
Light  on  a  broken  word  to  thank  him 

with. 
But  Philip  was  her  children's  all-in-all ; 
From  distant  corners  of  the  street  they 

ran 
To  greet  his  hearty  welome  heartily  ; 
LorSs  of  his  house  and  of  his  mill  were 

they ; 
Worried   his   passive    ear  with  petty 

wrongs 
Or  pleasures,  hung  upon  him,  play'd 

with  him 
And  call'd  him  Father  Philip.     Philip 

gain'd  [them 

As  Enoch  lost;  for  Enoch  seemed  to 
Uncertain  as  a  vision  or  a  dream. 
Faint  as  a  figure  seen  in  early  dawn 
Down  at  the  far  end  of  an  avenue, 
Going  ye  know  not  where ;  and  so  ten 

years. 
Since  Enoch  left  his  hearth  and  native 

land. 
Fled  forward,  and  no  news  of  Enoch 

came. 
It  chanced  one  evening  Annie's  chil- 
dren long'd 
To  go  with  others,  nutting  to  the  wood, 
And  Annie  would  go  with  them  ;  then 

they  begg'd 
For  Father  Philip  (as  they  call'd  himj 

too 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


347 


Him  like  the  working  bee  in  blossom- 
dust, 

Blanch'd  with  his  mill,  they  found;  and 
saying  to  him, 

♦'  Come  with  us  Father  Philip,"  he 
denied  ; 

But  when  the  children  pluck'd  at  him 
to  go. 

He  laugh'd,and  yielded  readily  to  their 
wish. 

For  was  not  Annie  v*jth  them  ?  and 
they  went. 

T)ut  after  scaling  half  the  weary  down, 
Just  where  the  prone  edge  of  the  wood 

began 
To   feather  toward  the  hollow,  all  her 

force 
Fail'd  her;  and  sighing  "  Let  merest  " 

she  said  : 
So  Philip  rested  with  her  well-content : 
"While  all  the  younger  ones  with  jubi- 
lant cries 
Broke  from  their  elders,  and  tumul- 

tuously 
Down  thro'  the  whitening  hazels  made 

a  plunge 
To  the  bottom,  and  dispersed,  and  bent 

or  broke 
The   lithe  reluctant    boughs  to    tear 

away 
Their  tawny  clusters,  crying  to  each 

other 
And  calling,  here  and  there,  about  the 

wood. 

But  Philip  sitting  at  her  side  forgot 
Her  presence,    and    remember'd  one 

dark  hour 
Here  in  this  wood,  when  like  a  wounded 

life  [said 

He  crept  into  the  shadow  :  at  last  he 
Lifting   his  honest    forehead,  ''  Listen, 

Annie, 
How   merry  they   are  down  yonder  in 

the  wood." 
"  Tired,  Annie  ? "  for  she  did  not  speak 

a  word. 
**  Tired  } "  but  her  face  had  fall'n  upon 

her  hands  ; 
At   which,  as  with  a  kind  of  anger  in 

him. 


"  The    ship   was   lost,"  he   said,   "  the 

ship  was  lost ! 
No  more  of  that  !  why  should  you  kill 

yourself 
And  make  them  orphans  quite  .''  "  And 

Annie  said, 
"  I  thought  not  of  it  :  but — I  know  not 

why — 
Their  voices  make  me  feel  so  solitary." 

Then  Philip  coming  somewhat  closer 

spoke. 
*'  Annie,  there  is  a  thing  upon  my  mind, 
And  it  has  been  upon  my  mind  so  long. 
That  tho'  I  know  not  when  it  first  came 

there, 
I    know  that  it  will  out  at  last.     O 

Annie, 
It  is  beyond  all  hope,  against  all  chance. 
That  he  who  left  you  ten  long  years  ago 
Should  still  be    living  ;  well  then — let 

me  speak  : 
I  grieve  to  see  you   poor  and  wanting 

help  : 
I  cannot  help  you  as  I  wish  to  do 
Unless — they  say  that  women   are   so 

quick — 
Perhaps  you  know  what  I  would  have 

you  know — 
I  wish  you   for  my  wife.     I  fain  would 

prove 
A  father  to  your  children  :  I  do  think 
They  love  me  as  a  father  :  I  am  sure 
That  I  love  them  as  if  they  were  mine 

own; 
And  I  believe,  if  you  were  fast  my  wife, 
That  after  all  these  sad  uncertain  years, 
We   might  be   still   as  happy  as  God 

grants  [it : 

To  any  of  his   creatures.     Think  upon 
For  I  am  well-io-do — no  kin,  no  care, 
No  burthen,  save  my  care  for  you  and 

yours : 
And  we  have  known  each  other  all  our 

lives. 
And  I  have  loved  you  longer  than  you 

know." 

Then  answer'd  Annie  ;  tenderly  she 
spoke  : 
"  You  have  been  as  God's  good  ange) 
in  our  house. 


348 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


God  bless  you  for  it,  God   reward  you 

for  it, 
Philip,  with   something   happier    than 

myself. 
Can  one  love  twice  ?  can  you  be  ever 

loved 
As   Enoch  was  ?  what   is   it   that  you 

ask?"- 
**  I  am   content,"  he  answer'd,  "  to  be 

loved 
A  little  after  Enoch."     "  O,  she  cried. 
Scared  as  it  were,  "  dear  Philip,  wait  a 

while  : 
If  Enoch   comes — but  Enoch  will  not 

come — 
Yet  wait  a  year,  a  year  is  not  so  long  : 
Surely  I  shall  be  wiser  in  a  year  : 

0  wait  a  little  !  "     Philip  sadly  said, 
"  Annie,  as  I  have  waited  all  my  life 

1  well  may  wait  a  little."     "  Nay,"  she 

cried, 
"  I  am  bound  :  you  have  my  promise — 

in  a  year  : 
Will  you  not  bide  your  year  as  I  bide 

mine  ? " 
And  Philip  answer'd,  "  I  will  bide  my 

year." 

Here  both  were    mute,   till    Philip 

glancing  up 
Beheld  the  dead  flame  of  the  fallen  day 
Pass  from   the   Danish   barrow   over- 
head ; 
Then  fearing  night  and  chill  for  Annie 

rose. 
And  sent  his  voice  beneath  him   thro' 

the  wood. 
Up  came  the  children  laden  with  their 

spoil  ; 
Then   all   descended  to  the  port,  and 

there 
At    Annie's   door  he  paused  and  gave 

his  hand, 
Saying  gently,  "  Annie,  when   I  spoke 

to  you, 
That  was   your   hour  of  weakness.     I 

was  wrong. 
I  am  always  bound  to  you,  but  you  are 

free." 
Then  Annie  weeping  answer'd,  '*  I  am 

bound." 


She  spoke  ;  and  in  one  moment  as  it 

were. 
While  yet  she  went  about  her  house- 
hold ways, 
Ev'n  as  she  dwelt  upon  his  latest  words, 
That  he  had  loved  her  longer  than  she 

knew. 
That  autumn  into  autumn  flash'd  again, 
And  there  he  stood  once  more  before 

her  face, 
Claiming  her  promise.   *'  Is  it  a  year  ?  " 

she  ask'd. 
"  Yes,  if  the   nuts,"  he  said,  "  be  ripe 

again  : 
Come  out  and  see."     But  she — she  put 

him  off — 
So  much  to  look  to — such  a  change — a 

month — 
Give  her  a  month — she  knew  that  she 

was  bound — 
A  month — no  more.     Then  Philip  with 

his  eyes 
Full   of   that  lifelong  hunger,  and   his 

voice 
Shaking  a  little  like  a  drunkard's  hand, 
"  Take  your   own   time,   Annie,   take 

your  own  time." 
And  Annie  could  have  wept  for  pity  of 

him  ; 
And  yet  she  held  him  on  delayingly 
With  many  a  scarce-believable  excuse. 
Trying  his  truth  and  his  long  sufferance 
Till  half-another  year  had  slipt  away. 

By  this  the  lazy  gossips  of  the  port, 
Abhorrent  of  a  calculation  crost, 
Began  to  chafe  as  at  a  personal  wrong. 
Some  thought  that  Philip  did  but  trifle 

with  her  ; 
Some  that  she  but  held  off  to  draw  him 

on  ; 
And  others  laugh'd    at  her  and  Philip 

loo. 
As  simple  folk  that  knew  not  their  own 

minds ; 
And  one,  in  whom  all  evil  fancies  clung 
Like  serpent  eggs  together,  laughingly 
Would  hint  at  worse  in  either.     Her 

own  son 
Was  silent,  tho'  he  often  look'd  his 

wish  : 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


349 


But  evermore  the  daughter  prest  upon 

her 
To  wed  the  man  so  dear  to  all  of  them 
And  lift  the  household  out  of  poverty  ; 
And  Philip's  rosy  face  contracting  grew 
Careworn  and  wan ;  and  all  these  things 

fell  on  her 
Sharp  as  reproach. 

At  last  one  night  it  chanced 
That  Annie  could   not   sleep,  but  ear- 
nestly 
Pray'd   for   a   sign  "  my  Enoch,  is  he 

gone  ? " 
Then   compass'd   round   by  the   blind 

wall  of  night 
Brook'd  not  the  expectant  terror  of  her 

heart, 
Started  from  bed,  and  struck  herself  a 

light, 
Then  desperately  seized  the  holy  Book, 
Suddenly  set  it  wide  to  find  a  sign. 
Suddenly  put  her  finger  on  the  text, 
"  Under  a  palmtree."     That  was  noth- 
ing to  her  . 
No  meaning  there:  she  closed  the  book 

and  slept  ; 
When  lo  !  her  Enoch  sitting  on  a  height 
Under  a  palmtree,  over  him  the  Sun ; 
"  He   is  gone,"  she   thought,  '*  he   is 

happy,  he  is  singing 
Hosanna  in  the  highest ;  yonder  shines 
The  Sun  of   Righteousness,  and  these 

be  palms 
Whereof  the   happy  people  strewing 

cried 
'Hosanna  in  the  highest!'"     Here 

she  woke, 
Resolved,  sent  for  him  and  said  wildly 

to  him, 
"  There  is  no   reason  why  we  should 

not  wed." 
"  Then  for  God's   sake,"  he  answer'd, 

"  both  our  sakes, 
So  you  will  wed  me,  let  it  be  at  once." 

So  these  were  wed  and  merrily  rang 

the  bells, 
Merrily  rang  the   bells   and  they  were 

wed. 
But  never  merrily  beat  Annie's  heart. 


A  footstep   seem'd   to  fall  beside   her 

path. 
She  knew  not  whence  ;  a   whisper   on 

her  ear, 
She  knew  not  what ;  nor  loved  she  to 

be  left 
Alone  at  home,  nor  ventured  out  alone. 
What  ail'd  her  then,  that  ere   she  en- 

ter'd,  often 
Her  hand  dwelt  lingeringly  on  the  latch 
Fearing   to  enter  ;  Philip   thought  he 

knew  ; 
Such  doubts  and  fears  were  common  to 

her  state, 
Being  with  child;  but  when   her  child 

was  born. 
Then  her  new  child  was  as   herself 

renew'd. 
Then  the  new  mother  came  about  hei 

heart. 
Then  her  good  Philip  was  her  all-in-all, 
And  that   mysterious   instinct  wholly 

died. 


And  where  was   Enoch  }    Prosper- 
ously sail'd 
The  ship  "  Good    Fortune,"  tho'    at 

setting  forth 
The  Biscay,  roughly  ridging  eastward, 

shook 
And   almost  overwhelm'd  her,  yet  un- 

vext 
She   slipt  across  the  summer  of  the 

world, 
Then  after  a  long  tumble  about  the 

Cape 
And  frequent  interchange  of  foul  and 

fair. 
She   passing  thro'  the   summer  world 

again, 
The  breath  of  Heaven  came  continually 
And   sent   her  sweetly  by  the  golden 

isles. 
Till  silent  in  her  oriental  haven. 


There   Enoch  traded  for  himself,  and 

bought 
Quaint   monsters   for  the    market   of 

those  times, 
A  gilded  dragon,  also,  for  the  babes. 


Less  lucky  her  home-voyage  ;  at  first 
indeed 

Thro'  many  a  fair  sea-circle,  day  by  day, 

Scarce-rocking,  her  full-busted  figure- 
head 

Stared  o'er  the  ripple  feathering  from 
her  bows  ; 

Then  follow'd  calms,  and  then  winds 
variable. 

Then  baffling,  a  long  course  of  them; 
and  last 

Storm,  such  as  drove  her  under  moon- 
less heavens 

Till  hard  upon  the  cry  of  "  breakers  " 
came 

The  crash  of  ruin,  and  the  loss  of  all 

But  Enoch  and  two  others.  Half  the 
night, 

Buoy'd  upon  floating  tackle  and  broken 
spars, 

These  drifted,  stranding  on  an  isle  at 
morn 

Rich,  but  the  loneliest  in  a  lonely  sea. 
No  want  was  there  of  human  suste- 
nance, 

Soft  fruitage,  mighty  nuts,  and  nourish- 
ing roots ; 

Nor  save  for  pity  was  it  hard  to  take 

The  helpless  life  so  wild  that  it  was 
tame. 

There  in  a  seaward-gazing  mountain- 
gorge 

They  built,  and  thatch' d  with  leaves  of 
palm,  a  hut, 

Half  hut,  half  native  cavern.  So  the 
three, 

Set  in  this  Eden  of  all  plenteousness, 

Dwelt  with  eternal  summer,  ill-content. 

For  one,  the  youngest  hardly  more 
than  boy. 

Hurt  in  that  night  of  sudden  ruin  and 
wreck,  [in-life. 

Lay  lingering  out  a  three-years'  death- 

They  could  not  leave  him.  After  he 
was  gone. 

The  two  remaining  found  a  fallen  stem; 

And  Enoch's  comrade,  careless  of  him- 
self, 

Fire-hollowing  this  in  Indian  fashion, 
fell 


Sun-stricken,  and  that  other  lived  alone. 
In   those  two   deaths   he   read   God's 
warning  *'  wait." 

The  mountain  wooded  to  the  peak, 
the  lawns 

And  winding  glades  high  up  like  ways 
to  Heaven, 

The  slender  coco's  drooping  crowri  of 
plumes, 

The  lightning  flash  of  insect  and  of 
bird. 

The  lustre  of  the  long  convolvuluses 

That  coil'd  around  the  stately  stems, 
and  ran 

Ev'n  to  the  limit  of  the  land,  the  glows 

And  glories  of  the  broad  belt  of  the 
world. 

All  these  he  saw ;  but  what  he  fain  had 
seen 

He  could  not  see,  the  kindly  human 
face. 

Nor  ever  heard  a  kindly  voice,  but 
heard 

The  myriad  shriek  of  wheeling  ocean- 
fowl, 

The  league-long  roller  thundering  on 
the  reef. 

The  moving  whisper  of  huge  trees  that 
branch'd 

And  blossom'd  in  the  zenith,  or  the 
sweep 

Of  some  precipitous  rivulet  to  the  wave. 

As  down  the  shore  he  ranged,  or  all 
day  long 

Sat  often  in  the  seaward-gazing  gorge, 

A  shipwreck'd  sailor,  waiting  for  a  sail : 

No  sail  from  day  to  day,  but  every  day 

The  sunrise  broken  into  scarlet  shafts 

Among  the  palms  and  ferns  and  preci- 
pices; 

The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  east ; 

The  blaze  upon  his  island  overhead ; 

The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  west ; 

Then  the  great  stars  that  globed  them- 
selves in  Heaven, 

The  hollower-bellowing  ocean,  and 
again 

The  scarlet  shafts  of  sunrise — but  no 
sail. 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


35 1 


There  often  as  he  watch'd  or  seem'd 

to  watch, 
So     still,   the    golden    lizard   on   him 

paused, 
A    phantom   made   of  many  phantoms 

moved 
Before  him  haunting  him,  or  he  himself 
Moved   haunting   people,   things    and 

places,  known 
Far  in  a  darker  isle  beyond  the  line  ; 
The  babes,  their   babble,   Annie,   the 

small  house. 
The  climbing  street,  the  mill,  the  leafy 

lanes. 
The   peacock-yewtree  and    the  lonely 

Hall, 
The  horse  he  drove,  the  boat  he  sold, 

the  chill 
November  dawns  and    dewy-glooming 

downs. 
The  gentle  shower,  the  smell  of  dying 

leaves. 
And  the  low  moan  of  leaden-color'd 

seas. 

Once  likewise,  in  the  ringing  of  his 

ears, 
Tho'    faintly,    merrily — far     and    far 

'away — 
He  heard   the  pealing   of  his    parish 

bells ; 
Then,  tho'  he  knew  not    wherefore, 

started  up 
Shuddering,   and  when  the  beauteous 

hateful  isle 
Return'd  upon  him,  had  not  his  poor 

heart 
Spoken  with  That,  which  being  every- 
where 
Lets  none,  who  speaks  with  Him,  seem 

all  alone. 
Surely  the  man  had  died  of  solitude. 

Thus    over  Enoch's    early-silvering 

head 
The  sunny  and  rainy  seasons  came  and 

went 
Year  after  year.     His  hopes  to  see  his 

own. 
And  pace  the  sacred  old  familiar  fields, 
Not  yet  had  perish' d,  when  his  lonely 

doom 


Came  suddenly  to  an  end.    Another 
ship 

(She  wanted  water)  blown  by  baffling 
winds 

Like  the  Good  Fortune,  from  her  des- 
tined course, 

Stay'd  by  this  isle,  not  knowing  where 
she  lay : 

For  since  the  mate  had  seen  at  early 
dawn 

Across   a  break  on  the  mist-wreathen 
isle 

The  silent  water  slipping  from  the  hills, 

They  sent  a   crew  that   landing  burst 
away 

In  search  of  stream  or  fount,  and  fill'd 
the  shores 

With   clamor.      Downward     from   his 
mountain  gorge 

Stept  the  long-hair'd  long-bearded  soli- 
tary, [clad, 

Brown,  looking  hardlv  human,  strangely 

Muttering   and  mumbling,  idiotlike  it 
seem'd, 

With    inarticulate   rage,   and   making - 
signs 

They  knew  not  what !  and  yet  he  led 
the  way 

To  where  the   rivulets  of  sweet  water 
ran ; 

And  ever  as  he  mingled  with  the  crew, 

And  heard  them  talking,  his  long-boun- 
den  tongue 

Was  loosen'd,  till  he  made  them  under- 
stand ; 

Whom,   when   their   casks  were  fill'd 
they  took  aboard: 

And  there  the  tale  he  utter'd  brokenly, 

Scarce  credited  at  first,  but  more  and 
more 

Amazed  and  melted  all  who  listen'd  to 
it: 

And  clothes  they  gave  him  and  free 
passage  home : 

But  oft  he  work'd  among  the  rest  and 
shook 

His  isolation  from  him.     None  of  these 

Came  from  his  county,   or  could  an- 
swer him. 

If  question'd,  aught  of  what  he  cared  to 
know. 


352 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


And  dull  the  voyage  was  with  long  de- 
lays, 
The  vessel  scarce  sea-worthy  ;  but  ever- 
more 
His  fancy  fled  before  the  lazy  wind 
Returning,  till  beneath  a  clouded  moon 
He  like  a  lover  down  thro'  all  his  blood 
Drew  in  the  dewy  meadowy  morning- 
breath 
Of  England,  blown  across  her  ghostly 
wall :  [men 

And    that  same  morning  officers  and 
Levied  a  kindly  tax  upon  themselves, 
Pitying  the  lonely  man,  and  gave  him 

it: 
Then  moving  up  the  coast  they  landed 

him, 
Ev'n  in  that  harbor  whence  he  sail'd 
before. 

There  Enoch  spoke  no  word  to  any 

one, 
But  homeward, — home, — what  home? 

had  he  a  home  ? 
His  home  he  walk'd.     Bright  was  that 

afternoon, 
Sunny  but  chill ;  till  drawn  thro'  either 

chasm, 
Where  either    haven    open'd  on   the 

deeps, 
Roll'd  a  sea-haze    and  whelm'd    the 

world  in  gray : 
Cut  off  the  length  of  highway  on  be- 
fore. 
And  left  but  narrow  breadth  to  left  and 

right 
Of  wither'd  holt  or  tilth  or  pasturage. 
On  the  nigh-naked  tree  the  Robin  piped 
Disconsolate,  and  thro'   the  dripping 

haze 
The  dead  weight  of  the  dead  leaf  bore 

it  down : 
Thicker  the  drizzle  grew,  deeper  the 

gloom; 
Last,  as  it  seem'd,  a  great  mist-blotted 

light 
Flared  on  him,  and  he  came   upon  the 

place. 

Then  down  the  long  street  having 
slowly  stolen. 
His  heart  foreshadowing  all  calamity, 


His  eyes  upon  the  stones,  he  reach'd 

the  home 
Where  Annie  lived  and  loved  him,  and 

his  babes 
In  those  far-off  seven  happy  years  were 

born  ; 
But  finding  neither  light  nor  murmur 

there 
(A  bill  of  sale gleam'd  thro' the  drizzle) 

crept 
Still  downward  thinking  "  dead  or  dead 

to  me  ! " 

Down  to  the  pool  and  narrow  wharf 

he  went. 
Seeking  a  tavern  which  of  old  he  knew, 
A  front  of  timber-crost  antiquity. 
So  propt,  worm-eaten,  ruinously  old. 
He  thought  it  must  have  gone ;  but  he 

was  gone 
Who  kept  it :  and  his  widow,  Miriam 

Lane, 
With  daily-dwindling  profits  held  the 

house ; 
A  haunt  of  brawling  seamen  once,  but 

now 
Stiller  with  yet  a  bed  for  wandering 

men. 
There  Enoch  rested  silent  many  days. 

But  Miriam  Lane  was  good  and  gar- 
rulous, 
Nor  let  him  be,  but  often  breaking  in, 
Told  him,  with  other  annals  of  the  port, 
Not  knowing — Enoch  was  so  brown,  so 

bow'd, 
So  broken — all  the  story  of  his  house. 
His  babyV,  death,  her  growing  poverty, 
How  Philip  put  her  little  pnes  to  school, 
And  kept  them  in  it,  his  long  wooing 

her, 
Her  slow  consent,  and  marriage,  and 

the  birth 
Of  Philip's  child:  and  o'er  his  coun. 

tenance 
No  shadow  past,  nor  motion ;  any  one, 
Regarding,  well  had  deem'd  he  felt  the 

tale 
Less   than    the  teller  :  only  when  she 

closed, 
"  Enoch,  poor  man,  was  cast  away  and 

lost," 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


353 


He  shaking  his  gray  head  pathetically, 
Repeated   muttering  "  Cast  away  and 

iost ; " 
Again    in    deeper     inward     whispers 

"  Lost !  " 

But  Enoch  yearn'd  to  see  her  face 

again ; 
"  If  I  might  look  on  her  sweet  face 

again 
And  know  that  she  is  happy."     So  the 

thought 
Haunted  and  harass'd  him,  and   drove 

him  forth 
At  evening  when  the   dull  November 

day 
Was  growing  duller  twilight,  to  the  hill. 
There  he  sat  down  gazing  on  all  below: 
There  did  a  thousand  memories  roll 

upon  him. 
Unspeakable  for  sadness.     By  and  by 
The  ruddy  square  of  comfortable  light. 
Far-blazing  from  the   rear  of  Philip's 

house, 
Allured  him,  as  the  beacon-blaze  allures 
The  bird  of  passage,  till  he  madly  strikes 
Against  it,  and  beats  out  his  weary  life. 

"For  Philip's  dwelling  fronted  on  the 

street, 
The  latest  house  to  landward  ;  but  be- 
hind, 
With  one  small  gate  that  open'd  on  the 

waste, 
Flourish'd  a  little  garden   square  and 

wall'd  ; 
And  in  it  throve  an  ancient   evergreen, 
A  yewtree,  and  all  round  it  ran  a  walk 
Of  shingle,  and  a  walk  divided  it : 
But  Enoch  shunn'd  the   middle  walk 

and  stole 
Up  by  the  wall,  behind  the  yew ;  and 

thence 
That    which    he    better    might     have 

shunn'd,  if  griefs 
Like  his  have  worse  or  better.  Enoch 

saw. 

For  cups  and  silver  on  the  burnish'd 
board 
Sparkled  and  shone  :  so  genial  was  the 
hearth ; 


And  on  the  right  hand  of  the  hearth  he 

saw 
Philip,  the  slighted  suitor  of  old  times, 
Stout,  rosy,  with  his  babe  across  his 

knees  ; 
And  o'er  her  second  father  stoopt  a 

girl, 
A  later  but  a  loftier  Annie  Lee, 
Fair-hair'd  and  tall,  and  from  her  lifted 

hand 
Dangled  a  length  of  ribbon  and  a  ring 
To   tempt   the   babe,   who   rear'd    his 

creasy  arms, 
Caught  at  and  ever   miss'd  it,  and  they 

laugh'd  : 
And  on  the  left  hand  of  the  hearth  he 

saw 
The  mother  glancing  often  towards  her 

babe. 
But  turning  now  and  then  to  speak  with 

him, 
Her  son,  who  stood  before  her  tall  and 

strong. 
And  saying  that  which  pleased  him,  for 

he  smiled. 


Now  when  the  dead  man  come  to  life 

beheld 
His  wife  his  wife  no  more,  and  saw  the 

babe 
Hers,  yet  not  his,   upon   the  father's 

knee, 
And   all   the   warmth,    the  peace,  the 

happiness, 
And  his  own  children  tall  and  beau- 
tiful, 
And  him,  that  other,  reigning  in   his 

place. 
Lord  of  his  rights  and  of  his  children's 

love, — 
Then   he,  tho'  Miriam  Lane  had  told 

him  all. 
Because  things  seen  are  mightier  than 

things  heard, 
Stagger'd    and     shook,     holding     the 

branch,  and  fear'd 
To  send  abroad  a  shrill  and  terrible  cry. 
Which  in  one  moment,  like  the  blast  of 

doom. 
Would  shatter  all  the  happiness  of  the 

hearth. 


354 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KTNG 


He   therefore   turning   softly   like  a 

thief, 
Lest   the   harsh   shingle   should  grate 

underfoot, 
And  feeling  all  along  the  garden-wall, 
Lest  he  should  swoon  and  tumble  and 

be  found, 
Crept  to  the  gate,  and  open'd  it,  and 

closed, 
x\s  lightly  as  a  sick-man's  chamber-door. 
Behind  him,  and  came  out  upon  the 

waste. 

And  there  he  would  have  knelt,  but 

that  his  knees 
Were  feeble,  so  that  falling  prone  he 

dug 
His  fingers   into    the    wet   earth,  and 

pray'd. 

"  Too  hard  to  bear !  why  did  they 

take  me  thence  ? 
O    God    Almighty,   blessed    Saviour, 

Thou  [isle. 

That  didst  uphold  me  on  my  lonely 
Uphold  me.  Father,  in  my  loneliness 
A    little    longer!     aid    me,    give    me 

strength 
Not  to  tell  her,  never  to  let  her  know. 
Help  me   not   to   break  in  upon  her 

peace. 
My  children  too  !  must  I  not  speak  to 

these  ? 
They  know  me  not.     I  should  betray 

myself.  [girl 

Never:   no  father's  kiss  for  me, — the 
So  like  her  mother,  and  the  boy,  my 

son." 

There  speech  and  thought  and  nature 

fail'd  a  little, 
And  he  lay  tranced :  but  when  he  rose 

and  paced 
Back  toward  his  solitary  home  again. 
All  down  the  narrow  street  he  went 
Beating  it  in  upon  his  weary  brain, 
As  tho'  it  were  the  burthen  of  a  song, 
"Not    to    tell  her,  never  to  let  her 

know." 

He  was  not  all  unhappy.     His  re- 
solve ^ 


Upbore  him,  and  firm  faith,  and  ever- 
more 
Prayer  from  a  living  source  within  the 

will, 
And   beating   up   thro'   all   the   bitter 

world. 
Like  fountains  of  sweet  water  in  the 

sea, 
Kept  him  a  living  soul.    "This miller's 

wife,"  [of, 

ITe  said  to  Miriam,  "  that  you  told  me 
Has  she  no  fear  that  her  first  husband 

lives?" 
"Ay,   ay,   poor    soul,"    said    Miriam, 

"  fear  enow  ! 
If  you  could  tell  her  you  had  seen  him 

dead. 
Why,  that   would  be  her   comfort  : " 

and  he  thought, 
"After   the    Lord   has   call'd   me  she 

shall  know, 
I  wait  his  time,"  and  Enoch  set  him- 
self, 
Scorning  an  alms,  to  work  whereby  to 

live. 
Almost  to  all  things  could  he  turn  his 

hand. 
Cooper   he   was    and    carpenter,   and 

wrought 
To  make  the  boatmen  fishing-nets,  or 

help'd 
At  lading  and  unlading  the  tall  barks, 
That  brought  the  stinted  commerce  of 

those  days : 
Thus  earn'd  a  scanty  living  for  him- 
self: 
Yet  since  he  did  but  labor  for  himself. 
Work  without  hope,  there  was  not  life 

in  it 
Whereby  the  man  could  live ;  and  as 

the  year  [day 

Roll'd  itself  round  again  to  meet  the 
When  Enoch  had  return'd,  a  languor 

came 
Upon  him,  gentle  sickness,  gradually 
Weakening  the  man,  till  he  could  d» 

no  more. 
But  kept  the  house,  his  chair,  and  last 

his  bed. 
And  Enoch  bore  his  weakness  cheer 

fully. 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


355 


For  sure  no  gladlier  does  the  stranded 

wreck 
See  thro'  the  gray  skirts  of  a  lifting 

squall 
The  boat  that  bears  the  hope  of  life 

approach 
To  save  the  life  despair'd  of,  than  he 

saw 
Death  dawning  on  him,  and  the  close 

of  all. 

For  thro'  that  dawning  gleam'd   a 

kindlier  hope 
On  Enoch  thinking,  *' After  I  am  gone, 
Then  may  she  learn  I  loved  her  to  the 

last." 
He  call'd  aloud  for  Miriam  Lane  and 

said, 
"  Woman,  I  have  a  secret — only  swear, 
Before    I   tell    you — swear    upon    the 

book 
Not    to    reveal    it,   till    you   see   me 

dead." 
"Dead,"   clamor'd   the   good   woman, 

"  hear  him  talk  ! 
I  warrant,  man,  that   we   shall   bring 

vou  round." 
"  Swear,"   added  Enoch,  sternly,    "  on 

the  book." 
And  on  the  book,  half-frighted,  Miriam 

swore. 
Then  Enoch  rolling  his  grav  eyes  upon 

her, 
"  Did  you  know  Enoch  Arden  of  this 

town  ? " 
**  Know  him  .'' "  she  said,  "  I  knew  him 

far  away. 
Ay,  ay,  I  mind  him  coming  down  the 

street ; 
Held  his  head  high,  and  cared  for  no 

man,  he." 
Slowly  and  sadly  Enoch  answer'd  her ; 
"  His  head  is  low,  and  no  man  cares 

for  him. 
I  think  I  have  not  three  days  more  to 

live ; 
I  am  the  man."     At  which  the  woman 

gave 
A  half-incredulous,  half-hysterical  cry. 
"  You  Arden,  you  !  nay, — sure  he  was 

a  foot 


Enoch   said 


Higher   than   you   be. 

again, 
"  My  God  has  bow'd  me  down  to  what 

I  am; 
My  grief  aiid  solitude  have  broken  me  ; 
Nevertheless,  know  you  that  I  am  he 
Who    married  —  but    that    name   has 

twice  been  changed — 
I  married  her  who  married  Philip  Ray. 
Sit,  listen."     Then  he  told  her  of  his 

voyage. 
His  wreck,  his  lonely  life,  his  coming 

back, 
His  gazing  in  on  Annie,  his  resolve, 
And  how  he  kept  it.     As  the  woman 

heard. 
Fast  flow'd  the   current  of  her  easy 

tears. 
While  in  her  heart  she  yearn'd  inces- 
santly 
To  rush   abroad  all  round  the  little 

haven, 
Proclaiming    Enoch    Arden    and    his 

woes ; 
But   awed   and   promise-bounden   she 

forbore. 
Saying  only,  "  See  your  bairns  before. 

you  go  ! 
Eh,  let  me  fetch  'm,  Arden,"  and  arose 
Eager  to  bring  them  down,  for  Enoch 

hung 
A  moment  on  her  words,  but  then  re« 

plied  : 

"  Woman,  disturb  me  not  now  at  the 

last, 
But  let  me  hold  my  purpose  till  I  die. 
Sit  down  again ;  mark  me  and  under- 
stand, 
While   I   have    power    to   speak.      Z' 

charge  you  now. 
When  you  shall  see  her,  tell  her  that  i 

died 
Blessing  her,  praying  for  her,  loving 

her ; 
Save  for  the  bar  between  us,  loving 

her 
As  when  she  laid  her  head  beside  my 

own. 
And  tell  my  daughter  Annie,  whom  I 

saw 


35^ 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 


So  like   her  mother,   that    my  latest 

breath 
Was  spent  in  blessing  her  and  praying 

for  her. 
And  tell  my  son  that  I  difed  blessing 

him. 
And  say  to  Philip  that  I  blest  him  too  ; 
He  never  meant  us  anything  but  good. 
But  if  my  children  care   to  see  me 

dead, 
Who  hardly  knew  me  living,  let  them 

come, 
I  am  their  father;  but  she  must  not 

come, 
For  my  dead  face  would  vex  her  after- 
life. 
And  now  there  is  but  one  of  all  my 

blood, 
Who  will  embrace  me  in  the  world-to- 
be  : 
This  hair  is  his:  she  cut  it  off  and  gave 

it. 
And  I  have  borne  it  with  me  all  these 

years. 
And  thought  to  bear  it  with  me  to  my 

grave ; 
But  now  my  mind  is  changed,  for  I 

shall  see  him. 
My  babe  in  bliss:  wherefore  when  I 

am  gone. 
Take,  give  her  this,  for  it  may  comfort 

h«r; 


It  will  moreover  be  a  token  to  her, 
That  I  am  he." 


He  ceased  ;  and  Miriam  Lane 
Made  such  a  voluble  answer  promising 

That  once  again  he  roU'd  his  eyes  upon 

her 
Repeating    all    he    wish'd,   and  onc» 

again 
She  promised. 

Then  the  third  night  after  this, 
While  Enoch  slumber'd  motionless  and 

pale, 
And  Miriam  watch'd  and  dozed  at  in- 

»  tervals. 
There   came  so  loud  a  calling  of  th^ 

sea. 
That  all  the  houses  in  the  haven  rang. 
He  woke,  he  rose,  he  spread  his  arms 

abroad 
Crying  with  a  loud  voice  "A  sail!  a 

sail! 
I  am  saved;"  and  so  fell  back  and 

spoke  no  more. 


So  past  the  strong  heroic  soul  away. 
And  when  they  buried  him  the  little 

port 
Had  seldom  seen  a  costlier  funeral. 


A  YLMER'S  FIELD. 


357 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS. 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


1793- 

Dust  are  our  frames:  and,  gilded 
dust,  our  pride 

Looks  only  for  a  moment  whole  and 
sound ; 

Like  that  long-buried  body  of  the 
king, 

Found  lying  with  his  urns  and  orna- 
ments, 

Which  at  a  touch  of  light,  an  air  of 
heaven, 

Slipt  into  ashes  and  was  found  no 
more. 

Here  is  a  story  which  in  rougher 

shape 
Came  from  a  grizzled  cripple,  whom  I 

saw 
Sunning    himself    in    a    waste    field 

alone — 
Old,  and  a  mine  of  memories — who 

had  served. 
Long  since,  a  bygone   Rector  of  the 

place, 
And  been  himself  a  part  of  what  he 

told. 

Sir  Aylmer  Aylmer,  that  almighty 

man, 
The  county  God — in  whose  capacious 

hall, 
Hung  with  a  hundred  shields,  the  fam- 
ily tree 
Sprang  from  the  midriff  of  a  prostrate 

king — 
Whose  blazing  wyvern  weathercock'd 

the  spire, 
Stood  from  his  walls  and  wing'd  his 

entry-gates 
And  swang  besides  on  many  a  windy 

sign— 


Whose  eyes  from  under  a  pyramidal 

head 
Saw  from   his  windows   nothing  save 

his  own — 
What  lovelier  of  his  own  had  he  than 

her. 
His  only  child,  his  Edith,  whom  he 

loved 
As  heiress  and  not  heir  regretfully  ? 
But  "  he  that  marries  her  marries  her 

name," 
This  fiat  somewhat   soothed  himself 

and  wife. 
His  wife  a  faded  beauty  of  the  Baths, 
Insipid  as  the  Queen  upon  a  card  ; 
Her  all  of  thought  and  bearing  hardly 

more 
Than  his  own  shadow  in  a  sickly  sun. 

A  land  of  hops  and  poppy-nnngled 

corn. 
Little  about  it  stirring  save  a  brook  ! 
A  sleepy  land  where  under  the  same 

wheel 
The  same  old  rut  would  deepen  year 

by  year ; 
Where  almost  all  the  village  had  one 

name  ; 
Where  Aylmer  follow'd  Aylmer  at  the 

Hall 
And  Averill  Averill  at  the  Rectory 
Thrice    over;    so    that    Rectory  and 

Hall, 
Bound  in  an  immemorial  intimacy. 
Were   open   to  each    other;    tho'  to 

dream 
That  Love  could  bind  them  closer  well 

had  made  [up 

The  hoar  hair  of  the  Baronet  bristle 
With  horror,  worse  than  had  he  heard 

his  priest 
Preach  an  inverted  scripture,  sons  of 

men 
Daughters  of  God ;  so  sleepy  was  the 

land. 


358 


A  YLMER'S  FIELP. 


And  might  not  Averill,  had  he  will'd 
it  so, 

Somewhere  beneath  his  own  low  range 
of  roofs, 

Have  also  set  his  many-shielded  tree  ? 

There  was  an  Aylmer- Averill  marriage 
once, 

"When  the  red  rose  was  redder  than  it- 
self, 

And  York's  white  rose  as  red  as  Lan- 
caster's, 

With  wounded  peace  which  each  had 
prick'd  to  death. 

"  Not  proven,"  Averill  said,  or  laugh- 
ingly, 

*'  Some  other  race  of  A  verills  " — prov'n 
or  no, 

What  cared  he  ?  what,  if  other  or  the 
same  ?  [self. 

He  lean'd  not  on  his  fathers  but  him- 

But  Leolin,  his  brother,  living  oft 

With  Averill,  and  a  year  or  two  be- 
fore 

Caird  to  the  bar,  but  ever  call'd  away 

By  one  low  voice  to  one  dear  neighbor- 
hood, 

Would  often,  in  his  walks  with  Edith, 
claim 

A  distant  kinship  to  the  gracious  blood 

That  shook  the  heart  of  Edith  hearing 
him. 

Sanguine  he  was :    a  but  less  vivid 

hue  [bloom 

Than   of   that   islet    in   the   chestnut- 
Flamed  in  his  cheek;  and  eager  eyes, 

that  still 
Took  joyful  note  of  all  things  joyful, 

bearn'd,  [gold, 

Beneath   a  manelike   mass   of  rolling 
Their   best   and   brightest,  when  they 

dwelt  on  hers, 
Edith,  whose  pensive  beauty,  perfect 

else. 
But   subject    to    the    season    or    the 

mood. 
Shone  like  a  mystic  star  between  the 

less 
And  greater  glory  varying  to  and  fro. 
We  know  not  wherefore  j  bounteously 

made. 


And    yet  so  finely,   that  a   troublous 

touch 
Thinn'd,  or  would  seem  to  thin  her  ir, 

a  day, 
A  joyous  to  dilate,  as  toward  the  light. 
And  these  had  been  together  from  the 

first. 
Leolin's-   first    nurse   was,   five    years 

after,  hers  : 
So  much  the  boy  foreran;  but  when 

his  date 
Doubled  her  own,  for  want  of   play 

mates,  he 
(Since  Ayerill  was  a  decade  and  a  half 
His   elder,  and   their   parents   under- 
ground) i 
Had  tost  his  ball  and  flown  his  kite, 

and  roll'd  [dipt 

His  hoop  to  pleasure  Edith,  with  her 
Against  the  rush  of  the  air  in  the  prone 

swing, 
Made  blossom-ball  or  daisy  chain,  ar* 

ranged 
Her  garden,  sow'd  her  name  and  kept 

it  green 
In  living  letters,  told  her  fairy-tales, 
Show'd  her  the  fairy  footings  on  the 

grass, 
The  little  dells  of  cowslip,  fairy  palms, 
The  petty  marestail  forest,  fairy  pines, 
Or  from  the  tiny  pitted  target  blew 
What  look'd  a  flight  of  fairy  arrows 

aim'd 
All  at  one  mark,  all  hitting :  make-be- 

lieves 
For  Edith  and  himself:    or  else   he 

forged, 
But  that  was  later,  boyish  histories 
Of  battle,   bold  adventure,    dungeon, 

wreck, 
Flights,  terrors,  sudden  rescues,  and 

true  love 
Crown'd  after  trial ;  sketches  rude  and 

faint, 
But  where  a  passion  yet  unborn  per- 
haps 
Lay  hidden  as  the  music  of  the  moon 
Sleeps  in  the  plain  eggs  of  the  nightin- 
gale. 
And  thus  together,  save  for  college' 

times 


A  YLMER'S  FIELD. 


359 


Or  Temple-eaten  terms,  a  couple,  fair 

As  ever  painter  painted,  poet  sang. 

Or  Heav'n  in  lavish  bounty  moulded, 
grew 

And  more  and  more,  the  maiden  wo- 
man-grown, 

He  wasted  hours  with  Averill ;  there, 
when  first 

The  tented  winter-field  was  broken  up 

Into  that  phalanx  of  the  summer 
spears 

That  soon  should  wear  the  garland; 
there  again 

When  burr  and  bine  were  gather'd  : 
lastly  there 

At  Christmas;  ever  welcome  at  the 
Hall, 

On  whose  dull  sameness  his  full  tide 
of  youth 

Broke  with  a  phosphorescence  cheer- 
ing even  ['aid 

My  lady ;    and   the    Baronet   yet   had 

No  bar  between,  them  :  dull  and  self- 
involved. 

Tall  and  erect,  but  bending  from  his 
height  [world, 

With  half-allowing  smiles  for  all  the 

And  mighty  courteous  in  the  main — 
his  pride  [ring — 

Lay   deeper   than    to  wear   it   as   his 

He,  like  an  Aylmer  in  his  Aylnierism, 

Would  care  no  more  for  Leolin's  walk- 
ing with  her 

Than  for  his  old  Newfoundland's,  when 
they  ran 

To  loose  him  at  the  stables,  for  he  rose 

Twofooted  at  the  limit  of  his  chain, 

Roaring  to  make  a  third ;  and  how 
should  Love, 

Whom  the  cross-lightnings  of  four 
chance-met  eyes 

Flash  into  fiery  life  from  nothing, 
follow 

Such  dear  familiarities  of  dawn  ? 

Seldom,  but  when  he  does.  Master  of 
all. 

So  these  young  hearts  not  knowing 
that  they  loved, 
Nol  she  at  least,  nor  conscious  of  a 
bar 


Between  them,  nor  by  plight  or  broken 

ring 
Bound,  but  an  immemorial  intimacy, 
Wander'd  at  will,  but  oft  accompanied 
By  Averill :  his,  a  brother's  love,  that 

hung 
With  wings  of  brooding  shelter  o'ei 

her  peace, 
Might    have    been     other,    save    foi 

Leolin's — 
Who  knows  ?    but  so  they  wander'd, 

hour  by  hour 
Gather'd  the  blossom  that  rebloom'd, 

and  drank 
The  magic  cup  that  filled  itself  anew. 

A  whisper  half  reveal'd  her  to  her- 
self. 
For  out  beyond  her  lodges,  where  the 

brook 
Vocal,  with  here  and  there  a  silence, 

ran 
By   sallowy  rims,   arose   the  laborers' 

homes, 
A   frequent   haunt    of   Edith,  on  low 

knobs 
That   dimpling   died  into  each  other, 

huts 
At   random   scatter'd,  each  a  nest  in 

bloom. 
Her  art,  her  hand,  her  counsel  all  had 

wrought 
About  them  :  here  was  one  that,  sum- 

mer-blanch'd, 
Was  parcel-bearded  with  the  traveller's 

joy 
In  Autumn,  parcel  ivy-clad ;  and  here 
The  warm  blue  breathings  of  a  hidden 

hearth 
Broke  from  a  bower  of  vine  and  honey- 
suckle : 
One  look'd  all  rosetree,  and  another 

wore  [stars : 

A  close-set  robe  of  jasmine  sown  with 
This  had  a  rosy  sea  of  gilly-flowers 
About  it :  this  a  milky  way  on  earth. 
Like  visions  in  the  Northern  dreamer's 

heavens, 
A  lily-avenue  climbing  to  the  doors  : 
One,   almost    to    the    martin-haunted 

eaves 


36o 


A  YLMER'S  FIELD. 


A  summer  burial  deep  in  hollyhocks ; 
Each,    its    own   charm;    and    Edith's 

everywhere ; 
And  Edith  ever  visitant  with  him, 
He  but  less  loved  than  Edith,  of  her 

poor: 
For  she — so  lowly-lovely  and  so  loving, 
Queenly   responsive   when    the    loyal 

hand 
Rose  from  the  clay  it  work'd  in  as  she 

past. 
Not  sowing  hedgerow  texts  and  pass- 
ing by, 
Nor   dealing   goodly   counsel   from    a 

height  [voice 

That  makes  the  lowest  hate  it,  but  a 
Of  comfort  and  an  open  hand  of  help, 
A  splendid  presence  flattering  the  poor 

roofs 
Revered  as  theirs,  but  kindlier  than 

themselves 
To  ailing  wife  or  wailing  infancy 
Or  old  bedridden  palsy, — was  adored  ; 
He,  loved  for  her  and  for  himself.     A 

grasp 
Having  the  warmth  and  muscle  of  the 

heart, 
A    childly   way   with    children,  and  a 

laugh 
Ringing    like  proven   golden  coinage 

true, 
Were  no  false  passport  to  that  easy 

realm, 
Where  once  with  Leolin  at  her  side 

the  girl, 
Nursing  a   child,   and  turning   to  the 

warmth 
The  tender  pink  five-beaded  baby-soles. 
Heard  the  good  mother  softly  whisper 

"  Bless, 
God  bless  'em ;  marriages  are  made  in 

Heaven." 

A  flash  of  semi-jealousy  clear'd  it  to 
her. 

My  Lady's  Indian  kinsman  unan- 
nounced 

With  half  a  score  of  swarthy  faces 
came. 

His  own,  tbo'  keen  and  bold  and  sol- 
dierly, 


Sear'd  by  the  close   ecliptic,  was  not 

fair; 
Fairer  his  talk,  a  tc«igue  that  ruled  the 

hour, 
Tho'  seeming  boastful :  so  when  first 

he  dash'd 
Into  the  chronicle  of  a  deedful  day, 
Sir  Aylmer  half  forgot  his  lazy  smile 
Of  patron  "  Good !  my  lady's  kinsman ! 

good ! " 
My  lady  with  ner  fingers  interlock'd, 
And  rotatory  thumbs  on  silken  knees, 
Call'd  all  her  vital  spirits  into  each  ear 
To  listen:  unawares  they  flitted  off, 
Busying  themselves  about  the  flower- 

age 
That  stood  from  out  a  stiff  brocade  in 

which, 
The  meteor  of  a  splendid  season,  she. 
Once  with   this   kinsman,  ah  so  long 

ago, 
Stept  thro'  the  stately  minuet  of  those 

days : 
But  Edith's  eager  fancy  hurried  with 

him 
Snatch'd  thro'  the  perilous  passes  of 

his  life : 
Till  Leolin  ever  watchful  of  her  eye 
Hated  him  with  a  momentary  hate. 
Wife-hunting,  as  the  rumor  ran,  was 

he  : 
I  know  not,  for   he   spoke   not,   only 

shower'd 
His  oriental  gifts  on  every  one, 
And  most  on  Edith :  like  a  storm  he 

came. 
And  shook  the  house,  and  like  a  storm 

he  went. 

Among  the  gifts  he  left  her  (possi])ly 
He  flow'd  and  ebb'd  uncertain,  to  re- 
turn 
When  others  had  been  tested)  there 

was  one, 
A  dagger,  in  rich  sheath  with  jewels 

on  it 
Sprinkled  about  in  gold  that  branch'd 

itself 
Fine  as  ice-ferns  on  January  panes 
Made  by  a  breath.    I  know  not  whence 
at  first,. 


A  YLMER'S  FIELD. 


361 


Nor  of  what  race,  the  work  ;  but  as  he 

told 
The     story,    storming    a    hill-fort     of 

thieves 
He  got  it ;  for  their  captain  after  fight. 
His  comrades  having  fought  their  last 

below, 
Was  climbing  up  the  valley;   at  whom 

he  shot : 
Down  from  the  beetling  crag  to  which 

he  clung 
Tumbled  the  tawny  rascal  at  his  feet. 
This   dagger   with   him,   which   when 

now  admired 
By  Edith  whom  his  pleasure  was  to 

please, 
At   once  the  costly  Sahib  yielded   to 

her. 

And   Leolin,    coming   after   he  was 
gone. 
Tost  over  all  her  presents  petulantly : 
And  when    she    show'd   the   wealthy 

scabbard,  saying 
*'  Look  what  a  lovely  piece  of  work- 
manship ! " 
Slight  was  his  answer,  *'  Well — I  care 

not  for  it;" 
Then  playing  with  the  blade  he  prick'd 

his  hand, 
"  A  gracious  gift  to  give  a  lady,  this  I  " 
*'  But   would   it    be    more    gracious," 

ask'd  the  girl, 
"  Were  I  to  give  this  gift  of  his  to  one 
That  is  no  lady  ? "     "  Gracious  ?    No," 

said  he. 
*'  Me  ! — but  I  cared  not  for  it.     O  par- 
don me, 
I  seem  to  be  ungraciousness  itself." 
"  Take  it,"   she  added  sweetly,    "  tho' 
his  gift;  [you, 

For  I  am  more  ungracious  e'en  than 
I  care  not  for  it  either;  "  and  he  said 
*'  Why  then  I  love  it :  "  but  Sir  Aylmer 

past, 
And  neither  loved  nor  liked  the  thing 
he  heard. 

The  next  day  came  a  neighbor.  Blues 
and  reds 
They  talk'd  of :  blues  were  sure  of  it, 
he  th«^ght ; 


Then  of  the  latest  fox — where  started  — 

kill'd 
In  such  a  bottom  :   "  Peter  had  the 

brush, 
My  Peter,  first :"  and  did  Sir  Aylmer 

know 
That  great  pock-pitten  fellow  had  been 

caught  "i 
Then  made  his  pleasure  echo,  hand  to 

hand,  [of  it 

And  rolling  as  it  were  the  substance 
Between  his  palms  a  moment  up  and 

down — 
"  The  birds  were  warm,  the  birds  were 

warm  upon  him 


We    have    hi 


and   had   Sir 


Aylmer  heard — 
Nay,  but  he  must — the  land  was  ring- 
ing of  it — 
This  blacksmith-border  marriage — one 

they  knew — 
Raw    from    the    nursery — who    could 

trust  a  child .'' 
That  cursed  France  with  her  egalities  1 
And  did  Sir  Aylmer  (deferentially 
With  nearing  chair  and  iower'd  accent) 

think— 
For  people  talk'd — that  it  was  wholly 

wise 
To  let  that  handsome  fellow  Averill 

walk 
So  freely  with  his  daughter.''   people 

talk'd— 
The  boy  might  get  a  notion  into  him ; 
The  girl  might  be  entangled  ere  she 

knew. 
Sir  Aylmer  Aylmer  slowly  stilfening 

spoke  ; 
"  The  girl   and  boy,   Sir,  know   their 

differences  I " 
"  Good,"  said  his  friend,  "but  watch  ! " 

and  he  "  Enough, 
More  than  enough,  Sir !     I  can  guard 

my  own." 
They  parted,  and  Sir  Aylmer  Aylmer 

watch'd. 

Pale,  for  on  her  the  thunders  of  the 
house 
Had  fallen  first,  was  Edith  that  same 
night : 


362 


A  YLMER'S  FIELD. 


Pale  as  the  Jephtha's  daughter,  a 
rough  piece 

Of  early  rigid  color,  under  which, 

Withdrawing  by  the  counter  door  to 
that 

Which  Leolin  open'd,  she  cast  back 
upon  him 

A  piteous  glance,  and  vanish'd.  He, 
as  one 

Caught  in  a  burst  of  unexpected  storm. 

And  pelted  with  outrageous  epithets. 

Turning  beheld  the  Powers  of  the 
House 

On  either  side  the  hearth,  indignant ; 
her. 

Cooling  her  false  cheek  with  a  feather- 
fan, 

Him  glaring,  by  his  own  stale  devil 
spurr'd. 

And,  like  a  beast  hard-ridden,  breath- 
ing hard. 

"  Ungenerous,  dishonorable,  base, 

Presumptuous !  trusted  as  he  was  with 
her, 

The  sole  succeeder  to  their  wealth, 
their  lands. 

The  last  remaining  pillar  of  their 
house. 

The  one  transmitter  of  their  ancient 
name, 

Their  child."  "Our  child!"  "Our 
heiress  ! "  "  Ours !  "  for  still, 

Like  echoes  from  beyond  a  hollow, 
came 

Her  sicklier  iteration.     Last  he  said 

*'  Boy,  mark,  me  !  for  your  fortunes  are 
to  make. 

I  swear  you  shall  not  make  them  out 
of  mine. 

Now  inasmuch  as  you  have  practised 
OH  her, 

Perplext  her,  made  her  half  forget  her- 
self, [us — 

Swerve  from  her  duty  to  herself  and 

Things  in  an  Aylmer  deem'd  impos- 
sible. 

Far  as  we  track  ourselves — I  say  that 
this,— 

Else  I  withdraw  favor  and  countenance 

From  you  and  yours  forever — shall 
you  do. 


Sir,  when  you  see  her — but  you  shall 

not  see  her — 
No,  you   shall  write,  and   not  to  her, 

but  me : 
And  you  shall  say  that  having  spoken 

with  me, 
And  after  look'd  into    yourself,   you 

find 
That  you  meant  nothing — as  indeed 

you  know 
That    you    meant    nothing.     Such    a 

match  as  this ! 
Impossible,  prodigious ! "  These  were 

words, 
As  meted  iDy  his  measure  of  himself. 
Arguing  boundless  forbearance  :  after 

which. 
And   Leolin's  horror-stricken   answer, 

"I 
So  foul  a  traitor  to  myself  and  her. 
Never,  O  never,"  for  about  as  long 
As  the  wind-hover  hangs  in  balance, 

paused 
Sir  Aylmer  reddening  from  the  storm 

within, 
Then  broke  all  bonds  of  courtesy,  and 

crying 
'*  Boy,  should  I  find  you  by  my  doors 

again 
My  men  shall  lash  you  from  them  like 

a  dog; 
Hence ! "    with    a  sudden    execration 

drove 
The   footstool   from  before  him,  and 

arose  ; 
So,   stammering   "scoundrel "   out   of 

teeth  that  ground 
As  in  a  dreadful  dream,  while  Leolin 

still 
Retreated  half-aghast,  the  fierce  old 

man 
Follow'd,  and  under    his  own  lintel 

stood 
Storming  with  lifted  hands,  a  hoary 

face 
Meet  for  the  reverence  of  the  hearth, 

but  now, 
Beneath    a  pale    and    unimpassion'd 

moon, 
Vext  with  unworthy  madness,  and  dor 

form'd. 


A  YLMER'S  FIELD. 


363 


Slowly  and  conscious  of  the  rageful 

eye 
That  watch'd  him,  till   he  heard  the 

ponderous  door 
Close,  crashing  with  long  echoes  thro' 

the  land, 
Went  Leolin ;  then,  his  passions  all  in 

flood 
And  masters  of  his  motion,  furiously 
Down  thro'  the   bright  lawns  to  his 

brother's  ran, 
And  foam'd  away  his  heart  at  Averill's 

ear : 
Whom   Averill  solaced  as  he  might, 

amazed  : 
The  man  was  his,  had  been  his  father's, 

friend : 
He  must  have  seen,  himself  had  seen 

it  long; 
He   must    have  known,   himself  had 

known;  besides, 
He  never  yet  had  set  his  daughter 

forth 
Here    in  the  woman-markets  of   the 

west, 
Where  our  Caucasians  let  themselves 

be  sold. 
Some  one,  he  thought,  had  slander'd 

Leolin  to  him. 
"  Brother,  for  I  have  loved  you  more 

as  son 
Than  brother,  let  me  tell  you :  I  my- 
self— 
What  is  their  pretty  saying  .?  jilted,  is 

it? 
Jilted  I  was  :  I  say  it  for  your  peace. 
Pain'd,  and,  as  bearing  in  myself  the 

shame 
The  woman  should  have  borne,  humil- 
iated, 
I  lived  for  years  a  stunted  sunless  life; 
Till  after  our  good  parents  past  away 
Watching  your  growth,  I  setm'd  again 

to  grow. 
Leolin,  I  almost  sin  in  envving  you  : 
The  very  whitest  lamb  in  all  my  fold 
Loves  you  :  I   know   her  :  the  worst 

thought  she  has 
Is  whiter  even  than  her  pretty  hand  ; 
She  must  prove    true :    for,  brother 

where  two  fight 


The  strongest  wins,  and  truth  and  love 

are  strength, 
And  you  are  happy :  let  her  parents 

be." 

But  Leolin  cried  out  the  more  upon 

them — 
Insolent,  brainless,  heartless  !  heiress, 

wealth. 
Their    wealth,   their    heiress !    wealth 

enough  was  theirs 
For  twenty  matches.     Were  he  lord  of 

this. 
Why  twenty  boys   and  girls    should 

marry  on  it. 
And  forty  blest  ones  bless  him,  and 

himself 
Be    wealthy    still,    ay  wealthier     He 

believed 
This   filthy  marriage-hindering   Mam- 
mon made 
The  harlot  of  the  cities  ;  nature  crost 
Was  mother  of  the  foul  adulteries 
That  saturate  soul  with  body,     Name, 

too !  name, 
Their  ancient  name  !  they  might  be 

proud ;  its  worth 
Was  being  Edith's.    Ah  how  pale  she 

had  look'd 
Darling,   to-night !    they    must    have 

rated  her 
Beyond  all  tolerance.    These  old  phea- 
sant-lords. 
These  partridge-breeders  of  a  thousand 

years. 
Who  had  mildew'd  in  their  thousands, 

doing  nothing 
Since  Egbert — why,  the  greater  their 

disgrace  ! 
Fall  back  upon  a  name!  rest,  rot  in 

that! 
Not  keep  it  noble,   make  it   nobler  ? 

fools, 
With  such  a  vantage-ground  for  noble- 
ness! 
He  had  known  a  man,  a  quintessence 

of  man, 
The  life  of  all — who  madly  loved — and 

he, 
Thwarted  by  one  of  these  old  father 

fools, 


3^4 


A  YLMER'S  FIELD. 


Had  rioted  his  life  out,  and  made  an 

end. 
He  would  not  do  it !  her  sweet  face 

and  faith 
Held    him    from    that :    but   he   had 

powers,  he  knew  it : 
Back  would  he  to  his  studies,  make  a 

name, 
Name,  fortune  too  :  the  world  should 

ring  of  him 
To  shame   these  mouldy  Aylmers  in 

their  graves : 
Chancellor,  or  what  is  greatest  would 

he  be — 
'♦  O   brother,  I   am  grieved  to  learn 

your  grief — 
Give  me  my  fling,  and  let  me  say  my 

say." 

At  which,  like  one  that  sees  his  own 

excess. 
And  easily  forgives  it  as  his  own. 
He  laugh'd ;  and  then  was  mute  :  but 

presently 
Wept  like  a  storm  :  and  honest  Averill 

seeing 
How  low  his  brother's  mood  had  fallen, 

fetch'd 
His  richest  beeswing  from  a  binn  re- 
served 
For  banquets,  praised  the  waning  red, 

and  told 
The  vintage — when  this  Aylmer  came 

of  age — 
Then  drank  and  past  it :  till  at  length 

the  two, 
Tho'   Leolin    flamed    and    fell  again, 

agreed 
That  much  allowance  must  be  made 

for  men. 
After    an   angry  dream  this  kindlier 

glow 
Faded  with  morning,  but  his  purpose 

held. 

Yet  once  by  night  again  the  lovers 

met, 
A  perilous    meeting    under    the    tall 

pines 
That  darkened  all  the  northward  of  her 

Hall. 


Him,  to  her  meek  and  modest  bosom 

prest 
In  agony,  she  promised  that  no  force, 
Persuasion,  no,  nor  death  could  alter 

her : 
He,  passionately  hopefuller,  would  gOj 
Labor  for  his  own  Edith,  and  return 
In  such  a  sunlight  of  prosperity 
He  should  not  be  rejected.     *'  Write 

to  me  1 
They  loved  me,  and  because  I  loved 

their  child 
They  hate  me :  there  is  war  between 

us,  dear, 
Which  breaks  all  bonds  but  ours ;  we 

must  remain 
Sacred    to    one    another."    So    they 

talk'd. 
Poor  children,  for  their  comfort :  the 

wind  blew ; 
The  rain  of  heaven,  and  their  own  bit- 
ter tears, 
Tears,  and  the  careless  rain  of  heaven, 

mixt 
Upon  their  faces,  as  they  kiss'd  each 

other 
In  darkness,  and  above  them  roar'd 

the  pine. 

So  Leolin  went;  and  as  we  task  our- 
selves 

To  learn  a  language  known  but  smat- 
teringiy 

In  phrases  here  and  there  at  random, 
toil'd 

Mastering  the  lawless  science  of  our 
law, 

That  codeless  myriad  of  precedent. 

That  wilderness  of  single  instances. 

Thro'  which  a  few,  by  wit  or  fortune 
led. 

May  beat  a  pathway  out  to  wealth  and 
fame. 

The  jests,  that  flash'd  about  the  plead- 
er's room, 

Lightning  of  the  hour,  the  pun,  the 
scurrilous  tale, — 

Old  scandals  buried  now  seven  decades 
deep 

In  other  scandals  that  have  lived  and 
died. 


A  YLMER'S  FIELD. 


36s 


And  left  the  living  scandal  that  shall 
die — 

Were  dead  to  him  already ;  bent  as  he 
was 

To  make  disproof  of  scorn,  and  strong 
in  hopes, 

And  prodigal  of  all  brain-labor  he, 

Charier  of  sleep,  and  wine  and  exer- 
cise, 

Except  when  for  a  breathing-while  at 
eve 

Some  niggard  fraction  of  an  hour  he 
ran 

Beside  the  river-bank:  and  then  in- 
deed 

Harder  the  times  were,  and  the  hands 
of  power 

Were  bloodier,  and  the  according 
hearts  of  men 

Seem'd  harder  too ;  but  the  soft  river- 
breeze. 

Which  fann'd  the  gardens  of  that  rival 
rose 

Yet  fragrant  in  a  heart  remembering 

His  foinur  talks  with  Edith,  on  him 
breathed 

Far  purelier  in  his  rushings  to  and  fro, 

After  his  books,  to  flush  his  blood  with 
air. 

Then  to  his  books  again.  My  lady's 
cousin, 

Half-sickening  of  his  pensioned  after- 
noon, 

Drove  in  upon  the  student  once  or 
twice. 

Ran  a  Malayan  muck  against  the 
times. 

Had  golden  hopes  for  France  and  all 
mankind, 

Answer'd  all  queries  touching  those  at 
home 

With  a  heaved  shoulder  and  a  saucy 
smile. 

And  fain  had  haled  him  out  into  the 
world, 

And  air'd  him  there  :  his  nearer  friend 
would  say, 

•'  Screw  not  the  cord  too  sharply  lest 
it  snap." 

Then  left  alone  he  pluck'd  her  dagger 
forth 


From  where   his  worldless  heart  had 

kept  it  warm. 
Kissing  his  vows  upon  it  like  a  knight. 
And  wrinkled  benchers  often  talk'd  of 

him 
Approvingly,  and  prophesied  his  rise : 
For  heart,  I   think,  help'd  head:  her 

letters  too, 
Tho'  far  between,  and  coming  fitfully 
Like    broken    music,   written   as  she 

found 
Or    made     occasion,    being     strictly 

watch'd, 
Charm'd  him  thro'  every  labyrinth  till 

he  saw 
An  end,  a  hope,  a  light  breaking  upon 

him. 

But  they  that  cast  her  spirit  into 

flesh, 
Her  worldly-wise   begetters,   plagued 

themselves 
To  sell  her,  those  good  parents,  for  her 

good- 
Whatever  eldest-born  of  rank  or  wealth 
Might  lie  within  their  compass,  him 

they  lured 
Into  their  net  made  pleasant  by  the 

baits  [woo. 

Of  gold  and  beauty,  wooing  him  to 
So  month  by  montfi  the  noise  about 

their  doors, 
And  distant  blaze  of  those  dull  ban- 
quets, made 
The   nightly  wirer  of   their  innocent 

hare 
Falter  before  he  took  it.     All  in  vain. 
Sullen,  defiant,  pitying,  wroth,  returned 
Leolin's  rejected   rivals  from  their  suit 
So  often,  that  the  folly  taking  wings 
Slipt  o'er  those  lazy  limits  down  the 

wind 
With    rumor,   and    became  in    other 

fields 
A  mockery  to  the  yeomen  over  ale. 
And  laughter  to  their  lords  :  but  those 

at  home. 
As  hunters  round  a  hunted  creature 

draw 
The  cordon  close  and  closer  toward 

the  death, 


366 


A  YLMER'S  FIELD. 


Narrow'd  her  goings  out  and  comings 
in; 

Fovbade  her  first  the  house  of  Averiil, 

Then  dosed  her  access  to  the  wealthier 
farms, 

Last  from  her  own  home-circle  of  the 
poor 

They  barr'd  her  :  yet  she  bore  it :  yet 
her  cheek 

Kept  color :  wondrous !  but,  O  mys- 
tery; 

What  amulet  drew  her  down  to  that 
old  oak, 

So  old,  that  twenty  years  before,  a  part 

Falling  had  let  appear  the  brand  of 
John — 

Once  grovelike,  each  huge  arm  a  tree, 
but  now 

The  broken  base  of  a  black  tower,  a 
cave 

Of  touchwood,  with  a  single  flourishing 
spray. 

There  the  manorial  lord  too  curiously 

Raking  in  that  millennial  touchwood- 
dust 

Found  for  himself  a  bitter  treasure- 
trove  ;  [read 

Burst  his  own  wyvern  on  the  seal,  and 

Writhing  a  letter  from  his  child,  for 
which 

Came  at  the  moment  Leolin's  emissary, 

A  crippled  lad,  and  coming  turn'd  to 

fly. 

But  scared  with  threats  of  jail  and  hal- 
ter gave 

To  him  that  fluster'd  his  poor  parish 
wits 

The  letter  which  he  brought,  and  swore 
besides  [fore 

To  play  their  go-between  as  hereto- 

Nor  let  them  know  themselves  betray'd, 
and  then, 

Soul-stricken  at  their  kindness  to  him. 
went 

Hating  his  own  lean  heart  and  miser- 
able. 

Thenceforward  oft  from  out  a  despot 
dream 
Panting  he  woke,  and  oft  as  early  as 
dawn 


Aroused  the  black  republic    on    hi* 

elms, 
Sweeping  the  frothily  from  the  fescue, 

brush'd 
Thro'    the   dim   meadow    toward    his 

treasure-trove, 
Seized  it,  took  home,  and  to  my  lady, 

who  made 
A  downward  crescent  of  her  minion 

mouth. 
Listless  in  all  despondence,  read  ;  an^ 

tore, 
As  if  the  living  passion  symbol'd  there 
Were  living  nerves  to  feel  the  rent ; 

and  burnt, 
Now    chafing   at   his  own  great    self 

defied, 
Now  striking  on  huge  stumbling-blocks 

of  scorn 
In  babyisms,  and  dear  diminutives 
Scatter'd  all. over  the  vocabulary 
Of  such  a  love  as  like  a  chidden  babe, 
After  much  wailing,  hush'd  itself  at 

last 
Hopeless  of  answer  :  then  tho'  Averill 

wrote 
And  bade  him  with  good  heart  sustain 

himself — 
All  would  be  well — the  lover  heeded 

not, 
But    passionately   restless  came  and 

went, 
And  rustling  once  at  night  about  the 

place, 
There  by  a    keeper  shot  at,  slightly 

hurt. 
Raging  return'd :  nor  was  it  well  for 

her  [pines. 

Kept  to  the  garden  now,  and  grove  of 
Watch'd  even  there  :  a»d  one  was  set 

to  watch 
The  watcher,  and  Sir  Aylmer  watch'd 

them  all, 
Yet  bitterer  from  his  readings  :  once 

indeed, 
Warm'd  with  his  wines,  or  taking  pride 

in  her. 
She   look'd  so  sweet,   he   kissM  her 

tenderly, 
Not  knowing  what  possess'd  hrm  :  that 

one  kiss 


A  YLMER'S  FIELD. 


36T 


Was  Leolin's  one  strong  rival  upon 

earth  ; 
Seconded,  for  my  lady  follow'd  suit, 
Seem'd  hope's  returning  rose  :  and  then 

ensued 
A  Martin's  summer  of  his  faded  love, 
Or  ordeal  by  kindness ;  after  this 
He  seldom  crost  his  child  without  a 

sneer ; 
The  mother  flow'd  in  shallower  acri- 
monies : 
Never  one  kindly  smile,  one  kindly 

word  : 
So  that  the  gentle  creature  shut  from 

all 
Her  charitable  use,  and  face  to  face 
With  twenty  months  of  silence,  slowly 

lost 
Nor  greatly  cared  to  lose,  her  hold  on 

life. 
Last,  some  low  fever  ranging  round  to 

spy 
The  weakness  of  a  people  or  a  house, 
Like  flies  that  haunt  a  wound,  or  deer, 

or  men. 
Or  almost  all  that  is,  hurting  the  hurt — 
Save  Christ  as  we  believe  him — found 

the  girl 
And  flung  her  down  upon  a  couch  of 

fire, 
Where  careless  of  the  household  faces 

near, 
And  crying  upon  the  name  of  Leolin, 
She,  and  with  her  the  race  of  Aylmer, 

past. 

Star  to  star  vibrates  light :  may  soul 

to  soul 
Strike  thro'  a  finer  element  of  her  own  ? 
So, — from  afar, — touch  as  at  once  ?  or 

why 
That  night,  that  moment,  when   she 

named  his  name, 
Did  the  keen  shriek,  "  Yes  love,  yes 

Edith,  yes," 
Shrill,  till  the  comrade  of  his  chambers 

woke, 
And  came  upon  him  half-arisen  from 

sleep. 
With  a  weird  bright  eye,  sweating  and 

trembling. 


His    hair  as  it  were    crackling  into 

flames. 
His   body  half  flung  forward  in  pur« 

suit. 
And  his  long  arms  stretch'd  as  to  grasp 

a  flyer : 
Nor  knew  he  wherefore  he  had  made 

the  cry: 
And  being  much  befool'd  and  idioted 
By  the  rough  amity  of  the  other,  sank 
As  into  sleep  again.     The  second  day, 
My  lady's  Indian  kinsman  rushing  in, 
A    breaker  of  the  bitter  news  from 

home. 
Found  a  dead  man,  a  letter  edged  with 

death 
Beside  him,  and  the  dagger  which  him- 
self 
Gave  Edith,  redden'd  with  no  bandit's 

blood  • 
"  From  Edith  "  was  engraven  on  the 

blade. 

Then  Averill  went  and  gazed  upon 

his  death. 
And  when  he  came   again,  his  flock 

believed — 
Beholding  how  the  years  which  are  not 

Time's 
Had  blasted  him — that  many  thousand 

days 
Were  dipt  by  horror  from  his  term  of 

life. 
Yet  the  sad  mother,  for  the  second 

death 
Scarce  touch'd  her  thro'  that  nearness 

of  the  first, 
And  being  used  to  find  her  pastor 

texts. 
Sent  to  the  harrow'd  brother,  praying 

him 
To  speak  before  the  people  of  her 

child. 
And  fixt  the   Sabbath.     Darkly  that 

day  rose  : 
Autumn's  mock  sunshine  of  the  faded 

woods 
Was  all   the  life   of  it;  for   hard  on 

these, 
A   breathless    burthen  of    low-folded 

heavens 


368 


A  YLMER'S  FIELD. 


Stifled  and  chill'd  at  once :  but  every 

roof 
Sent  out  a  listener :   many  too  had 

known 
Edith  among  the  hamlets  round,  and 

since 
The  parents'  harshness  and  the  hap- 
less loves 
And  double  death  were  widely  mur- 

mur'd,  left 
Their  own  gray  tower,  or  plain-faced 

tabernacle, 
To  hear  him ;  all  in  mourning  these, 

and  those 
With  blots  of  it  about  them,  ribbon, 

glove 
Or  kerchief;  while  the    church, — one 

night,  except 
For  greenish    glimmerings    thro'  the 

lancets, — made 
Still  paler  the  pale  head  of  him,  who 

tower'd 
Above  them,  with  his  hopes  in  either 

grave. 

Long  o'er  his    bent    brows    linger'd 

Averill, 
His  face  magnetic  to  the  hand  from 

which 
Livid  he  pluck'd  it  forth,  and  labor'd 

thro' 
His  brief  prayer-prelude,  gave  the  verse 

"Behold, 
Your  house  is  left  unto  you  desolate  ! " 
But  lapsed  into  so  long  a  pause  again 
As  half  amazed,  half  frighted  iall  his 

flock  : 
Then  from  his  height  and  loneliness  of 

grief 
Bore  down   in  flood,  and  dash'd   his 

angry  heart 
Against  the  desolations  of  the  world. 

Never  since  our  bad  earth  became 

one  sea, 
Which  rolling  o'er  the  palaces  of  the 

proud, 
And  all  but  those  who  knew  the  living 

God- 
Eight  that  were  left  to  make  a  purer 

world — 


When  since  had  flood,  fire,  earthquake, 

thunder,  wrought 
Such  waste  and  havoc  as  the  idolatries^ 
Which  from  the  low  light  of  mortality 
Shot  up  their  shadows  to  the  Heaven 

of  Heavens, 
And  worshipt  their  own  darkness  as 

the  Highest.? 
"Gash  thyself,  priest,  and  honor  thy 

brute  Baal, 
And  to  thy  worst  self  sacrifice  thyself, 
For    with   thy  worst  self    hast  thou 

clothed  thy  God." 
Then  came  a  Lord  in  no  wise  like  to 

Banl. 
The  babe  shall  lead  the  lion.     Surely 

now 
The  wilderness  shall  blossom  as  the 

rose. 
Crown    thyself,    worm,   and    worship 

thine  own  lusts  ! — 
No  coarse  and  blockish  God  of  acreage 
Stands  at  thy  gate  for  thee  to  grovel 

to— 
Thy  God  is  far  diffused  in  noble  groves 
And   princely  halls,   and    farms,  and 

flowing  lawns. 
And  heaps  of  living  gold  that  daily 

grow, 
And  title-scrolls  and  gorgeous  heral- 
dries. 
In  such  a  shape  dost  thou  behold  thy 

God. 
Thou  wilt  not  gash  thy  flesh  for  him  ; 

for  thine 
Fares  richly,  in  fine  linen,  not  a  hair 
Ruffled  upon  the  scarfskin,  even  while 
The  deathless  ruler  of  thy  dying  house 
Is  wounded  to  the  death  that  cannot 

die; 
And  tho'  thou  numberest  wi^h  the  fol- 
lowers 
Of  One  who  cried  "  Leave  all  and  fol- 
low me. 
Thee  therefore  with  His  light  about 

thy  feet, 
Thee  with  His  message  ringing  in  thine 

ears. 
Thee  shall  thy  brother  man,  the  Lord 

from  Heaven, 
Born  of  a  village  girl,  carpenter's  sen, 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


369 


Wonderful,  Prince  of  peace,  the  Mighty 

God, 
Count  the  more  base  idolater  of  the 

two; 
Crueller  :  as  not  passing  thro'  the  fire 
Bodies,  but  souls — thy  children's — thro' 

the  smoke, 
The  blight  of  low  desires — darkening 

thine  own 
To  thine   own  likeness ;  or  if  one  of 

these. 
Thy  better  born  unhappily  from  thee, 
Should,  as  by  miracle,  grow  straight 

and  fair — 
Friends,  I  was  bid  to  speak  of  such  a 

one 
By  those  who  most  have  cause  to  sor- 
row for  her — 
Fairer  than  Rachel  by  the  palmy  well, 
Fairer  than  Ruth  among  the  fields  of 

corn. 
Fair  as  the  Angel  that  said  "  hail "  she 

seem'd, 
Who  entering  fill'd  the  house  with  sud- 
den light. 
For    so    mine    own    was    brighten'd: 

where  indeed 
The  roof  so  lowly  but  that   beam  of 

Heaven 
Dawn'd  sometimes  thro'  the  doorway  ? 

whose  the  babe 
Too  ragged  to  be  fondled  on  her  lap, 
Warm'd  at  her  bosom  ?  the  poor  child 

of  shame, 
The  common  care  whom  no  one  cared 

for,  leapt 
To    greet  her,  wasting   his   forgotten 

heart, 
As    with    the  mother  he    had  never 

known. 
In  gambols ;  for  her  fresh  and  innocent 

eyes 
Had  such  a  star  of  morning  in  their 

blue, 
That  all  neglected  places  of  the  field 
Broke  into  nature's  music  when  they 

saw  her. 
Low  was  her  voice,  but  won  mysterious 

way 
Thro'  the  seal'd  ear,  to  which  a  louder 

one 


Was  all  but  silence — free  of  alms  her 

hand — 
The    hand   that   robed   your    cottage- 
walls  with  flowers 
Has   often  toil'd  to  clothe  your  little 

ones  ; 
How  often  placed  upon  the  sick  man's 

brow 
Cool'd  it,  or  laid  his  feverous  pillow 

smooth ! 
Had  you  one  sorrow  and  she  shared  it 

not.? 
One  burthen  and  she  would  not  lighten 

it.? 
One  spiritual  doubt  she  did  not  soothe  ? 
Or     when     some     heat   of   difference 

sparkled  out, 
How  sweetly  would  she  glide  between 

your  wraths. 
And   steal  you  from  each  other  1  for 

she  walk'd 
Wearing  the  light  yoke  of  that   Lord 

of  love. 
Who  still'd  the  rolling  wave  of  Galilee  ! 
And  one — of  him  I   was  not  bid  to 

speak — 
Was  always  with  her,  whom  you  also 

knew.  [love. 

Him  too  you  loved,  for  he  was  worthy 
And  these  had  been  together  from  the 

first; 
They  might  have  been  together  till  the 

last 
Friends,  this  frail  bark  of  ours,  when 

sorely  tried. 
May  wreck  itself  without  the  pilot's 

guilt, 
Without    the     captain's    knowledge : 

hope  with  me. 
Whose  shame  is  that,  if  he  went  hence 

with  shame  ? 
Nor  mine  the  fault,  if  losing  both  of 

these 
I  cry  to  vacant  chairs  and  widow'd 

walls, 
"  My  house  is  left  unto  me  desolate." 

While   thus  he   spoke,    his  hearers 
wept ;  but  some, 
Sons  of  the  glebe,  with  other  frowr.* 
than  those 


370 


A  YLMER'S  FIELD. 


That    knit    themselves    for    summer 

shadow,  scovvl'd 
At  their  great  lord.     He,  when  it  seem'd 

he  saw 
No  pale  sheet-lightnings  from  afar,  but 

fork'd 
Of  the  near  storm,  and  aiming   at  his 

head,  like, 

Sat  anger-charm'd  from  sorrow,  soldier- 
Erect  :  but  when  the  preacher's  cadence 

flow'd 
Softening  thro'  all  the  gentle  attributes 
Of  his  lost  child,  the  wife,  who  watch'd 

his  face. 
Paled  at  a  sudden  twitch  of  his  iron 

mouth ; 
And,  "  O  pray  God  that  he   hold  up," 

she  thought, 
"  Or  surely  I  shall  shame  myself  and 

him." 

> 
"  Nor  yours  the  blame — for  who  be- 
side your  hearths 
Can  take  her  place — if  echoing  me  you 

cry 
*  Our  house  is  left  unto  us  desolate  ? ' 
But  thou,  O  thou  that  killest,   hadst 

thou  known, 
O  thou  that  stonest,  hadst  thou  under- 
stood 
The  things  belonging  to  thy  peace  and 

ours  ! 
Is  there  no  prophet  but  the  voice  that 

calls 
Doom   upon  kings,   or    in  the    waste 

'Repent?' 
Is  not  our  own  child  on  the  narrow  way, 
"Who  down  to  those  that  saunter  in  the 

broad 
Cries,   '  Come  up  hither,'  as  a  prophet 

tons? 
Is  there  no  stoning  save  with  flint  and 

rock .? 
Yes,  as  the  dead  we  weep  for  testify- 
No  desolation  but  by  sword  and  fire  ? 
Yes,  as  your   moaiiings  witness,   and 

myself 
Am  lonelier,  darker,  earthlier  for  my 

loss. 
Give  me  your  prayers,  for  he  is  past 

your  prayers, 


Not  past  the  living  fount  of  pity  in 
Heaven, 

But  I  that  thought  myself  long-suffer- 
ing, meek. 

Exceeding  'poor  in  spirit' — how  the 
words 

Have  twisted  back  upon  themselvea 
and  mean 

Vileness,  we  are  grown  so  proud — I 
wish'd  my  voice 

A  rushing  tempest  of  the  wrath  of  God 

To  blow  these  sacrifices  thro'  the 
world — 

Sent  like  the  twelve-divided  concubine 

To  inflame  the  tribes ;  but  there — out 
yonder — earth 

Lightens  from  her  own  central  Hell — 
O  there 

The  red  fruit  of  an  old  idolatry — 

The  heads  of  chiefs  and  princes  fall  so 
fast. 

They  cling  together  in  the  ghastly 
sack — 

The  land  all  shambles — naked  mar- 
riages 

Flash  from  the  bridge,  and  ever-mur- 
der'd  France, 

By  shores  that  darken  with  the  gather- 
ing wolf, 

Runs  in  a  river  of  blood  to  the  sick 
sea. 

Is  this  a  time  to  madden  madness  then  ? 

Was  this  a  time  for  these  to  flaunt  their 
pride  ? 

May  Pharaoh's  darkness,  folds  as  dense 
as  those 

Which  hid  the  Holiest  from  the  peo- 
ple's eyes 

Ere  the  great  death,  shroud  this  great 
sin  from  all : 

Doubtless  our  narrow  world  must  can- 
vass it ; 

Or  rather  pray  for  those  and  pity  them 

Who  thro'  their  own  desire  accom- 
plish'd  bring 

Their  own  gray  hairs  with  sorrow  to 
the  grave — 

Who  broke  the  bond  which  they  desired 
to  break — 

Which  else  had  link'd  their  race  witk 
times  to  come — 


A  YLMER'S  FIELD. 


371 


Who  wove  coarse  webs  to  snare  her 

purity, 
Grossly  contriving  their  dear  daughter's 

good — 
Poor  souls,  and  knew  not  what  they  did, 

but  sat 
Ignorant,  devising  their  own  daughter's 

death ! 
May  not  that  earthly  chastisement  suf- 
fice? 
Have  not  our  love  and  reverence  left 

them  bare  ? 
Will  not  another  take  their  heritage  ? 
Will   there   be    children's  laughter  in 

their  hall 
Forever  and  forever,  or  one  stone 
Left  on  another,  or  is  it  a  light  thing 
That   I  their  guest,   their  host,   their 

ancient  friend, 
I  made  by  these  the  last  of  all  my  race 
Must  cry  to  these  the  last  of  theirs,  as 

cried 
Christ  ere   His  agony  to  those    that 

swore  [made 

Not  by  the   temple  but  the  gold,  and 
Their  own  traditions  God,  and  slew  the 

Lord, 
And    left    their    memories  a  world's 

curse — '  Behold, 
Your  house  is  left  unto  you  desolate  ? '  " 

Ended  he  had  not,  but  she  brook'd 
no  more ; 

Long  since  her  heart  had  beat  remorse- 
lessly. 

Her  crampt-up  sorrow  pain'd  her,  and 
a  sense 

Of  meanness  in  her  unresisting  life. 

Then  their  eyes  vext  her ;  for  on  en- 
tering 

He  had  cast  the  curtains  of  their  seat 
aside — 

Black  velvet  of  the  costliest— she  her- 
self 

Had  seen  to  that :  fain  had  she  closed 
them  now, 

Yet  dared  not  stir  to  do  it,  only  near'd 

Her  husband  inch  by  inch,  but  when 
she  laid 

Wifelike,  her  hand  in  one  of  his,  he 
veil'd 


His  face   with  the   other,  and  at  once 

as  falls 
A  creeper  when  the  prop  is  broken,  fell 
The  woman  shrieking  at  his  feet,  and 

swoon'd. 
Then  her  own  people  bore  along  the 

nave 
Her  pendent  hands,  and  narrow  meagre 

face 
Seam'd  with  the   shallow  cares  of  fifty 

ye'ars : 
And  her  the  Lord  of  all  the  landscape 

round 
Ev'n  to  its  last  horizon,  and  of  all 
Who  peer'd  at  him  so  keeiily,  follow'd 

out 
Tall  and  erect,  but  in  the  middle  aisle 
Reel'd,   as   a  footsore  ox  in  crowded 

ways 
Stumbling  across  the    market  to   his 

death, 
Unpitied  ;  for  he  groped  as  blind,  and 

seem'd 
Always  about  to  fall,  grasping  the  pews 
And  oaken  finials  till  he  touch'd  the 

door  ; 
Yet  to  the  lychgate,  where  his  chariot 

stood, 
Strode  from  the  porch,  tall  and  erect 

again. 

But  nevermore  did  either  pass  the 
gate 

Save  under  pall  with  bearers.  In  one 
month. 

Thro'  weary  and  yet  ever  wearier  hours, 

The  childless  mother  went  to  seek  her 
child ; 

And  when  she  felt  the  silence  of  his 
house 

About  him,  and  the  change  and  not  the 
change. 

And  those  fixt  eyes  of  painted  an- 
cestors 

Staring  forever  from  their  gilded  walls 

On  him  their  last  descendant,  his  own 
head 

Began  to  droop,  to  fall ;  the  man  be- 
came 

Imbecile;  his  one  word  was  "desa 
late ; " 


372 


SEA  DREAMS, 


Dead  for  two  years  before   his  death 

was  he ; 
But  when  the  second  Christmas  came, 

escaped 
His  keepers,  and  the  silence  which  he 

felt. 
To  find  a  deeper  in  the  narrow  gloom 
By  wife   and  child ;  nor  wanted  at  his 

end 
The  dark  retinue  reverencing  death 
At  golden  thresholds ;  nor  from  tender 

hearts, 
And  those  who  sorrow'd  o'er  a  vanish'd 

race, 
Pity,  the  violet  on  the  tyrant's  grave. 
Then  the  great  Hall  was  wholly  broken 

down, 
And  the  broad  woodland  parcell'd  into 

farms ; 
And  where    the  two    contrived  their 

daughter's  good. 
Lies  the  hawk's  cast,  the  mole  has  made 

his  run. 
The  hedgehog  underneath  the  plantain 

bores, 
The   rabbit  fondles   his   own  harmless 

face. 
The   slow-worm  creeps,  and  the  thin 

weasel  there 
Follows   the  mouse,  and  all   is   open 

field. 


SEA  DREAMS. 

A  CITY  clerk,  but  gently  born  and 

bred ; 
His  wife,  an  unknown  artist's  orphan 

child- 
One  babe  was  th»irs,  a  Margaret,  three 

years  old  : 
They,  thinking  that  her  clear  germander 

eye 
Droopt  in  the  giant-factoried  city-gloom, 
Came,  with  a  month's  leave  given  them, 

to  the  sea : 
For  which  his  gains  were  dock'd,  how- 
ever small : 
Small   were   his   gains,   and   hard    his 

work;  besides. 
Their  slender  household  fortunes  (for 

the  man 


Had  risk'd  his  little)  like  the  little  thrift, 
Trembled    in  perilous    places    o'er  a 

deep; 
And  oft,  when  sitting  all  alone,  his  face 
"Would  darken,  as  he  cursed  his  credu- 

lousness. 
And  that  one  unctuous  mouth   which 

lured  him,  rogue. 
To  buy  strange  shares  in  some  Peruvian 

mine. 
Now  seaward-bound    for  health  they 

gain'd  a  coast,  [cave, 

All  sand  and  cliff  and  deep-inrunning 
At  close  of  day ;  slept,  woke,  and  went 

the  next. 
The   Sabbath,  pious   variers  from  the 

church, 
To  chapel ;  where  a  heated  pulpiteer, 
Not  preaching  simple  Christ  to  simple 

men, 
Announced  the  coming  doom,  and  ful- 
minated 
Against  the  scarlet    woman  and  her 

creed : 
For  sideways  up  he  swung  his    arms, 

and  shriek'd, 
"  Thus,  thus  with  violence,"  ev'n  as  if 

he  held 
The  Apocalypic  millstone,  and  himself 
Were   that  great  Angel ;    "  thus  with 

violence 
Shall  Babylon  be  cast  into  the  sea; 
Then    comes   the  close."    The  gentle* 

hearted  wife 
Sat  shuddering  at  the  ruin  of  a  world  ; 
He  at  his  own :  but  when  the   wordy 

storm 
Had  ended,  forth  they  came  and  paced 

the  shore, 
Ran  in  and  out  the  long  sea-framing 

caves. 
Drank  the  large  air,  and  saw,  but  scarce 

believed 
(The   sootflake  of  so  many  a  summer 

still 
Clung  to  their  fancies)  that  they  saw, 

the  sea. 
So  now   on  sand  they  walk'd,  and  now 

on  cliff, 
Lingering  about  the    thymy  promoi* 

tories, 


SEA  DREAMS. 


373 


Till  all  the  sails  were   darken'd  in  the 

west, 
And  rosed  in  the  east :   then  homeward 

and  to  bed  : 
Where  she,  who  kept  a  tender  Christian 

hope 
Haunting  a  holy  text,  and  still  to  that 
Returning,  as  the  bird  returns,  at  night, 
"  Let  not  the  sun  go  down  upon   your 

wrath." 
Said,  "Love,  forgive  him:"  but  he  did 

not  speak ; 
And  silenced  by  that  silence  lay  the 

wife, 
Remembering  her  dear  Lord  who  died 

for  all. 
And  musing  on  the  little  lives  of  men, 
And  how  they  mar  this   little  by  their 

feuds. 

But  while  the  two  were  sleeping,  a 

full  tide 
Rose  with  ground-swell,  which,  on  the 

foremost  rocks 
Touching,  upjetted  in  spirit  of  wild  sea- 
smoke, 
And  scaled  in  sheets  of  wasteful  foam, 

und  fell 
In  vast  sea-cataracts — ever  and  anon 
Dead  claps  of  thunder  from  within  the 

cliffs 
Heard  thro'  the  living  roar.     At  this 

the  babe. 
Their    Margaret    cradled    near    them, 

wail'd  and  woke 
The  mother,  and  the  father  suddenly 

cried, 
**  A  wreck,  a  wreck  ! "  then  turn'd,  and 

groaning  said, 

"  Forgive  !  How  many  will  say,  *  For-' 

give,'  and  find 
A  sort  of  absolution  in  the  sound 
To  hate  a  little  longer  !  No  ;  the  sin 
That  neither  God  nor  man  can  well 

forgive, 
Hypocrisy,  I  saw  it  in  him  at  once. 
Is  it  so  true  that  second  thoughts  are 

best } 
Not  first,  and  third,  which  are  a  riper 

first } 


Too  ripe,  too  late  !  they  come  too  late 

for  use. 
Ah  love,  there  surely  lives  in  man  and 

beast 
Something  divine  to  warn  them  of  thei« 

foes ; 
And  such  a  sense,  when  I  first  fronted 

him. 
Said,  'Trust him  not;'  but  after,  when 

I  came 
To  know  him  more,  I  lost  it,  knew  him 

less  ; 
Fought  with  what  seem'd  my  own  un- 

charity : 
Sate   at   his  table  ;   drank  his   costly 

wines ; 
Made  more  and  more    allowance  for 

his  talk; 
Went  further,  fool !  and  trusted  him 

with  all, 
All  my  poor  scrapings  from  a  dozen 

.    years 
Of  dust  and  deskwork ;  there  is  no 

such  mine. 
None;  but  a  gulf  of  ruin,  swallowing 

gold, 
Not  making.     Ruin'd  !  ruin'd !  the  sea 

roars 
Ruin    a  fearful  night !  '* 

"  Not  fearful ;  fair," 
Said  the  good  wife,  "  if  every  star  in 

heaven 
Can  make  it  fair  :  you  do  but  hear  the 

tide. 
Had  you  ill  dreams  ? 

"  O  yes,"  he  said,  "  I  dream'd 
Of  such  a  tide   ^welling  toward  the 

land. 
And  I  from  out  the  boundless  outer 

deep 
Swept  with  it  to  the  shore,  and  enter'd 

one 
Of  those  dark  caves  that  run  beneath 

the  cliffs. 
I  thought  the  motion  of  the  boundless 

deep 
Bore  through   the    cave,    and  I   was 

heaved  upon  it 
In   darkness :  then  I  saw  one  lovely 

star 


374 


SEA  DREAMS. 


Larger  and  larger.     *  What  a  world,'  I 

thought, 
'  To   live   in ! '    but   in   moving    on   I 

found 
Only  the  landward  exit  of  the  cave. 
Bright  with  the  sun  upon  the  stream 

beyond  : 
And  near  the  light  a  giant  woman  sat. 
All  over  earthy,  like  a  piece  of  earth, 
A   pickaxe   in   her  hand :   then  out  I 

slipt 
Into  a  land  all  sun  and  blossom,  trees 
As  high  as  heaven,  and  every  bird  that 

sings  : 
And  here  the  night-light  flickering  in 

my  eyes 
Awoke  me." 

"  That  was  then  your  dream,"  she 
said, 
"  Not  sad,  but  sweet." 

"  So  sweet,  I  lay,"  said  he, 
♦'  And  mused  upon  it,  drifting  up  the 

stream 
In  fancy,  till  I  slept  again,  and  pierced 
The  broken  vision ;  for  I  dream'd  that 

still 
The  motion  of  the  great  deep  bore  me 

on, 
And  thai  the  woman  walk'd  upon  the 

brink  : 
I  wonder'd  at  her  strength,  and  ask'd 

her  of  it : 
'  It  came,'  she  said,  '  by  working  in  the 

mines  : ' 
O   then   to  ask  her  of  my  shares,  I 

thought ; 
And  ask'd  ;  but  not  a  word ;  she  shook 

her  head. 
And  then  the  motion  of  the  current 

ceased. 
And  there  was  rolling  thunder;  and 

we  reach'd 
A  mountain,  like  a  wall  of  burrs  and 

thorns  ; 
But  she  with  her  strong  feet  up  the 

steep  hill 
Trod  out  a  path  :  I  follow'd ;  and  at 

top. 
She  pointed  seaward  :  there  a  fleet  of 

glass. 


That  seem'd  a  fleet  of  jewels  undef 
me. 

Sailing  along  before  a  gloomy  cloud 

That  not  one  moment  ceased  to  thun- 
der, past 

In  sunshine;  right  across  its  track 
there  lay, 

Down   in  the  water,  a  long  reef  of 

Or  what  seem'd  gold  :  and  I  was  glad 
at  first 

To  think  that  in  our  often-ransacked 
world 

Still  so  much  gold  was  left ;  and  then 
I  fear'd 

Lest  the  gay  navy  there  should  splin- 
ter on  it, 

And  fearing  waved  my  arm  to  warn 
them  off ; 

An  idle  signal,  for  the  brittle  fleet 

(I  thought  I  could  have  died  to  save 
it)  near'd, 

Touch'd,  clink'd,  and  clash'd,  and  van- 
ish'd,  and  I  woke, 

I  heard  the  clash  so  clearly.  Now  I 
see 

My  dream  was  Life  ;  the  woman  hon- 
est Work ; 

And  my  poor  venture  but  a  fleet  of 
glass, 

Wreck'd  on  a  reef  of  visionary  gold." 

*'  Nay,"  said  the  kindly  wife  to  com- 
fort him, 

"You  raised  your  arm,  you  tumbled 
down  and  broke 

The  glass  with  little  Margaret's  medi- 
cine in  it; 

And,  breaking  that,  you  made  and 
broke  your  dream : 

A  trifle  makes  a  dream,  a  trifle 
breaks." 

"  No  trifle,"  groan'd  the  husband ; 


yesterday 
hii 


I  met  him  suddenly  in  the  street,  and 

ask'd 
That  which  I  ask'd  the  woman  in  my 

dream. 
Like  her,  he  shook  his  head.     '  ShcvJ 

me  the  books  ! ' 


SEA  DREAMS. 


375 


He  dodged  me  with  a  long  and  loose 

account. 
*  The  books,  the  books ! '  but  he,  he 

could  not  wait, 
Bound  on  a  matter  of  life  and  death  : 
When   the    great   Books   (see  Daniel 

seven  and  ten) 
Were  open'd,  I  should  find  he  meant 

me  well :  [ooze 

■  And  then  began  to  bloat  himself,  and 

All  over  with  the  fat  affectionate  smile 

That   makes    the    widow   lean.     '  My 

dearest  friend, 
Have  faith,  have   faith  !     We  live  by 

faith,'  said  he ; 
'And  all  things  work  together  for  the 

good 
Of  those  ' — it  makes  me  sick  to  quote 

him — last 
Gript   my  hand  hard,  and  with   God- 

bless-you  went. 
I  stood  like  one  that  had  received  a 

blow: 
I  found  a  hard  friend  in  his  loose  ac- 
counts, 
A  loose  one  in  the  hard  grip  of  his 

hand, 
A  curse  in  his  God-bless-you  ;  then  my 

eyes 
Pursued  him  down  the  street,  and  far 

away 
Among  the  honest  shoulders  of  the 

crowd, 
Read  rascal  in  the    motions    of  his 

back, 
And   scoundrel   in  the  supple-sliding 

knee." 

"  Was  he  so  bound,  poor  soul  ? " 
said  the  good  wife ; 

**  So  are  we  all :  but  do  not  call  him, 
love. 

Before  you  prove  him,  rogue,  and 
proved,  forgive. 

His  gain  is  loss;  for  he  that  wrongs 
his  friend 

Wrongr.  himself  more,  and  ever  bears 
about 

A  silent  court  of  justice  in  his  breast. 

Himself  the  judge  and  jury,  and  him- 
self 


The  prisoner  at  the  bar,  ever  con- 
demned : 

And  that  drags  down  his  life:  then 
comes  what  comes 

Hereafter  :  and  he  meant,  he  said  he 
,  meant. 

Perhaps  he  meant,  or  partly  meant, 
you  well." 

" '  With  all  his  conscience  and  one 

eye  askew ' — 
Love,  let  me   quote  these   lines,  that 

you  may  learn 
A  man  is  likewise  counsel  for  himself, 
Too    often  in    that    silent    court  of 

yours — 
'  With  all  his  conscience  and  one  eye 

askew, 
So  false,  he  partly  took  himself  for 

true  ; 
Whose  pious  talk,  when  most  his  heart 

was  dry, 
Made  wet  the  crafty  crowsfoot  round 

his  eye; 
Who,  never  naming  God  except  for 

gain, 
So  never  took  that  useful   name   in 

vain; 
Made  Him  his  catspaw  and  the  Cross 

his  tool, 
And  Christ  the  bait  to  trap  his  dupe 

and  fool ; 
Nor  deeds  of  gift,  but  gifts  of  grace  he 

forged, 
And  snakelike  slimed  his  victim  ere  he 

gorged ; 
And  oft  at  Bible  meetings,  o'er  the 

rest 
Arising,  did  his  holy  oily  best. 
Dropping  the  too  rough  H  in  Hell  and 

Heaven, 
To  spread  the  Word  by  which  himself 

had  thriven.' 
How  like  you  this  old  satire  ?  " 

*'  Nay,"  she  said, 
"  I   loathe    it :    he   had   never   kindly 

heart. 
Nor  ever  cared  to  better  his  own  kind, 
Who  first  wrote  satire  with  no  pity  in 

it. 


376 


SEA  DREAMS. 


But  will  you  hear  my  dream,  for  I  had 

one 
That  altogether  went  to  music  ?    Still 
It  awed  me." 

Then  ohc  told  it,  having  dream'd 
Of  that  same  coast. 

— "  But  round  the  North,  a  light, 
A  belt,  it  seem'd,  of  luminous  vapor, 

lay. 
And  ever  in  it  a  low  musical  note 
Swell'd  up  and  died ;  and,  as  it  swell'd, 

a  ridge 
Of  breaker  issued  from  the  belt,  and 

still 
Grew  with  the  growing  note,  and  when 

the  note 
Had  reach'd  a  thunderous  fulness,  on 

those  cliffs 
Broke,  mixt  with  awful  light  (the  same 

as  that 
Living  within   the  belt)  whereby  she 

saw 
That  all  those  lines  of  cliffs  were  cliffs 

no  more, 
But  huge  cathedral  fronts  of  every  age. 
Grave,  florid,  stern,  as  far  as  eye  could 

see, 
One   after   one  :   and   then  the  great 

ridge  drew. 
Lessening  to  the  lessening  music,  back, 
And   past   into   the   belt   and   swell'd 

again 
Slowly  to  music  :  ever  when  it  broke 
The  statues,  king  or  saint,  or  founder, 

fell; 
Then  from   the  gaps  and  chasms  of 

ruin  left 
Came  men  and  women  in  dark  clusters 

round, 
Some  crying  *  Set  them  up !  they  shall 

not  fall ! ' 
And   others,  *  Let  them   lie,  for  they 

havefall'n.'   ' 
And   still  they  strove   and  wrangled : 

and  she  grieved 
In  her  strange  dream,  she  knew  not 

why,  to  find 
Their  wildest  wailings  never  out  of 

tune 


With   that   sweet   note ;  and   ever   as 

their  shrieks 
Ran  highest  up  the  gamut,  that  great 

wave 
Returning,  while   none   mark'd   it,  on 

the  crowd 
Broke,    mixt    with    awful    light,   and 

show'd  their  eyes 
Glaring,    and    passionate    looks,   and 

swept  away 
The  men  of  flesh  and  blood,  and  men 

of  stone, 
To  the  waste  deeps  together. 

"Then  I  fixt 
My  wistful  eyes  on  two  fair  images. 
Both    crown'd   with    stars     and   high 

among  the  stars, — 
The  Virgin  Mother  standing  with  her 

child 
High  up  on  one  of  those  dark  minster- 
fronts — 
Till  she  began  to  totter,  and  the  child 
Clung  to  the  mother,  and  sent  out  a 

cry 
Which  mixt  with  little  Margaret's,  and 

I  woke, 
And  my  dream  awed  me: — well — but 

what  are  dreams  ? 
Yours  came  from  the  breaking  of  a 

glass. 
And  mine  but  from  the   crying  of  a 

child." 

"  Child .?    No  !  "  said  he,  "  but  this 

tide's  roar,  and  his. 
Our  Boanerges,  with  his    threats  of 

doom. 
And  loud-lung'd  Antibabylonianisms 
(Altho'  I  grant  but  little  music  there) 
Went  both  to  make  your  dream  :  but 

if  there  were 
A  music  harmonizing  our  wild  cries, 
Sphere-music  such  as  that  you  dream'd 

about, 
Why,  that  would  make  our  passions 

far  too  like 
The  discords   dear  to  the   musician. 

No- 
One  shriek  of  hate  would  jar  all  the 

hymns  of  heaven  : 


SEA  DREAMS. 


377 


True  Devils  with  no  ear.  they  howl  in 

tune 
With  nothing  but  the  Devil !  " 

"  •  True '  indeed 
One  of  our  town,  but  later  by  an  hour 
Here   than   ourselves,  spoke   with  me 

on  the  shore ; 
While   you    were   running  down  the 

sands,  and  made 
The  dimpled  flounce  of  the  sea-furbelow 

flap, 
(Jood  man,  to  please   the  child.     She 

brought  strange  news. 
Why  were   you  silent  when  I  spoke 

to-night  ? 
I  had  set  my  heart  on  your  forgiving 

him 
lief  ore  you  knew.     We  musi  forgive 

the  dead." 

"  Dead  !  who  is  dead  ?  " 

"  The  man  your  eye  pursued. 
A  little  after  you  had  parted  with  him, 
He     suddenly  dropt    dead    of  heart- 
disease." 

"  Dead  ?  he  }  of  heart-disease  .?  what 
heart  had  he 
To  die  of?  dead  !  " 

"  Ah,  dearest,  if  there  be 
A  devil  in  man,  there  is  an  angel  too, 
And  if  he  did  that  wrong  you  charge 

him  with, 
His  angel  broke  his  heart.     But  your 

rough  voice 
(You  spoke   so  loud)  has  roused  the 

child  again. 
Sleep,  little  birdie,  sleep  !  will  she  not 

sleep 
Without  her  ♦  little  birdie  ? '  well  then, 

sleep, 
And  I  will  sing  you  *  birdie.'  " 

Saying  this, 
The  woman  half  turn'd  round  from  him 

she  loved, 


Left  him  one  hand,  and  reaching  thro' 
the  night 

Her  other,  found  (for  it  was  close 
beside) 

And  half  embraced  the  basket  cradle^ 
head 

With  one  soft  arm,  which,  like  the 
pliant  bough 

That  moving  moves  the  nest  and  nest- 
ling, sway'd 

The  cradle,  while  she  sang  this  baby 
song. 

What  does  little  birdie  say 
In  her  nest  at  peep  of  day  ? 
Let  me  fly,  says  little  birdie, 
Mother,  let  me  fly  away. 
Birdie,  rest  a  little  longer, 
Till  the  little  wings  are  stronger. 
So  she  rests  a  little  longer, 
Then  she  flies  away. 

What  does  little  baby  say, 
In  her  bed  at  peep  of  day  ? 
Baby  says,  like  little  birdie, 
Let  me  rise  and  fly  away. 
Baby,  sleep  a  little  longer. 
Till  the  little  limbs  are  stronger. 
If  she  sleeps  a  little  longer, 
Baby  too  shall  fly  away. 

•She  sleeps;  let  us  too,  let  all  evil, 

sleep. 
He  also  sleeps— another    sleep  than 

ours. 
He  can  do  no  more  wrong  :  forgive 

him,  dear. 
And  I  shall  sleep  the  sounder  I  " 

Then  the  man, 
"  His  deeds  yet  live,  the  worst  is  yet  to 

come. 
Yet  let  your  sleep  for  this  one  nighl 

be  sound  : 
I  do  forgive  him  !  " 

*'  Thanks,  my  love,"  she  said, 
"  Your  own  will  be  the  sweeter,"  and 
they  slept. 


378  THE  GRANDMOTHER. 


THE  GRANDMOTHER. 


And  Willy,  my  eldest-born,  is  gone,  you  say,  little  Anne  ? 
Ruddy  and  '.vhite,  and  strong  on  his  legs,  he  looks  like  a  man. 
And  Willy's  wife  has  written  :  she  never  was  over-wise. 
Never  the  wife  for  Willy  :  he  wouldn't  take  my  advice. 

II. 
For,  Annie,  you  see,  her  father  was  not  the  man  to  save. 
Hadn't  a  head  to  manage,  and  drank  himself  into  his  graA 
Pretty  enough,  very  pretty  !  but  I  was  against  it  for  oae. 
Eh  ! — but  he  wouldn't  hear  me— and  Willy,  you  say,  is  gon 


Willy,  my  beauty,  my  eldest-born,  the  flower  of  the  flock  ; 

Never  a  man  could  fling  him  :  for  Willy  stood  like  a  rock. 

"  Here's  a  leg  for  a  baby  of  a  week  !  "  says  doctor:  and  he  would  be  bound 

There  was  not  his  like  that  year  in  twenty  parishes  round, 

IV. 

Strong  of  his  hands,  and  strong  on  his  legs,  but  still  of  his  tongue  I 
I  ought  to  have  gone  before  him  :  I  wonder  he  went  so  young. 
I  cannot  cry  for  him,  Annie  :  I  have  not  long  to  stay  ; 
Perhaps  I  shall  see  him  the  sooner,  for  he  lived  far  away. 

V. 

Why  do  you  look  at  me,  Annie  ?  you  think  I  am  hard  and  cold  ; 
But  all  my  children  have  gone  before  me,  I  am  so  old  : 
I  cannot  weep  for  Willy,  nor  can  I  weep  for  the  rest ; 
Only  at  your  age,  Annie,  I  could  have  wept  with  the  best 

VI. 
For  I  remember  a  quarrel  I  had  with  your  father,  my  dear. 
All  for  a  slanderous  story,  that  cost  me  many  a  tear, 
I  mean  your  grandfather,  Annie  :  it  cost  me  a  world  of  woe, 
Seventy  years  ago,  my  darling,  seventy  years  ago. 

VII. 
For  Jenny,  my  cousin,  had  come  to  the  place,  and  I  knew  right  well 
That  Jenny  had  tript  in  her  time  :  I  knew,  but  I  would  not  tell. 
And  she  to  be  soming  and  slandering  me,  the  base  little  liar  I 
But  the  tongue  is  a  fire,  as  you  know,  my  dear,  the  tongue  is  a  fire. 

VIII. 

And  the  parson  made  it  his  text  that  week,  and  he  said  likewise, 
That  a  lie  which  is  half  a  truth  is  ever  the  blackest  of  lies, 
That  a  lie  which  is  all  a  lie  may  be  met  and  fought  with  outright, 
But  a  lie  which  is  part  a  truth  is  a  harder  matter  to  fight. 


THE  GRANDMOTHER.  379 


And  Willy  had  not  been  down  to  the  farm  for  a  week  and  a  day  ; 
And  all  things  look'd  half-dead,  tho'  it  was  the  middle  of  May. 
Jenny,  to  slander  me,  who  knew  what  Jenny  had  been  ! 
But  soiling  another,  Annie,  will  never  make  one's  self  clean. 


And  I  cried  myself  wellnigh  blind,  and  all  of  an  evening  late 

I  climb'd  to  the  top  of  the  garth,  and  stood  by  the  road  at  the  gate. 

The  moon  like  a  rick  on  fire  was  rising  over  the  dale, 

And  whit,  whit,  whit,  in  the  bush  beside  me  chirrupt  the  nightingah 

XI. 

All  of  a  sudden  he  stopt :  there  past  by  the  gate  of  the  farm, 
Willy, — he  didn't  see  me, — and  Jenny  hung  on  his  arm. 
Out  into  the  road  I  started,  and  spoke  I  scarce  knew  how  ; 
Ah,  there's  no  fool  like  the  old  one — it  makes  me  angry  now. 

xri, 

Willy  stood  up  like  a  man,  and  look'd  the  thing  that  he  meant ; 
Jenny,  the  viper,  made  me  a  mocking  courtesy  and  went. 
And  I  said,  "  Let  us  part  :  in  a  hundred  years  it'll  all  be  the  same. 
You  cannot  love  me  at  all,  if  you  love  not  my  good  name." 

XIII. 

And  he  turn'd,  and  I  saw  his  eyes  all  wet,  in  the  sweet  moonshine  ; 
"  Sweetheart,  1  love  you  so  well  that  your  good  name  is  mine. 
And  what  do  I  care  for  Jane,  let  her  speak  of  you  well  or  ill ; 
But  marry  me  out  of  hand  :  we  too  shall  be  happy  still." 


"  Marry  you,  Willy  !  "  said  I,  "  but  I  needs  must  speak  my  mind, 
And  I  fear  you'll  listen  to  tales,  be  jealous  and  hard  and  unkind." 
But  he  turn'd  and  claspt  me  in  his  arms,  and  answer'd,  "  No,  love,  no 
Seventy  years  ago,  my  darling,  seventy  years  ago. 


So  Willy  and  I  were  wedded  :  T  wore  a  lilac  gown  ; 
And  the  ringers  rang  with  a  will,  and  he  gave  the  ringers  a  crown. 
But  the  first  that  ever  I  bare  was  dead  before  he  was  born, 
Shadow  and  shine  is  life,  little  Annie,  flower  and  thorn. 

XVI. 

That  was  the  first  time,  too,  that  ever  I  thought  of  death. 

There  lay  the  sweet  little  body  that  never  had  drawn  a  breath. 

I  had  not  wept,  little  Annie,  not  since  I  had  been  a  wife ; 

But  I  wept  like  a  child  that  day,  for  the  babe  had  fought  for  his  life. 


g8o  THE  GRANDMOTHER. 


XVII. 


His  dear  little  face  was  troubled,  as  if  with  anger  or  pain : 

I  look'd  at  the  still  little  body — his  trouble  had  all  been  in  vain. 

For  Willy  I  cannot  weep,  I  shall  see  him  another  morn  : 

But  I  wept  like  a  child  for  the  child  that  was  dead  before  he  was  born. 

XVIII. 

But  he  cheer'd  me,  my  good  man,  for  he  seldom  said  me  nay: 
Kind,  like  a  man,  was  he  ;  like  a  man,  too,  would  have  his  way: 
Never  jealous — not  he  :  we  had  many  a  happy  year  : 
And  he  died,  and  I  could  not  weep — my  own  time  seem'd  so  near, 

XIX. 

But  I  wish'd  it  had  been  God's  will  that  I,  too,  then  could  have  died  s 
I  began  to  be  tired  a  little,  and  fain  had  slept  at  his  side. 
And  that  was  ten  years  back,  or  more,  if  I  don't  forget : 
But  as  to  the  children,  Annie,  they're  all  about  me  yet. 


Pattering  over  the  boards,  my  Annie,  who  left  me  at  two, 
Patter  she  goes,  my  own  little  Annie,  an  Annie  like  you : 
Pattering  over  the  boards,  she  comes  and  goes  at  her  will, 
While  Harry  is  in  the  five-acre  and  Charlie  ploughing  the  hill. 


And  Harry  and  Charlie,  I  hear  them  too — they  sing  to  their  team ; 
Often  they  come  to  the  door  in  a  pleasant  kind  of  a  dream. 
They  come  and  sit  by  my  chair,  they  hover  about  my  bed — 
I  am  not  always  certain  if  they  be  alive  or  dead. 


And  yet  I  know  for  a  truth,  there's  none  of  them  left  alive; 
For  Harry  went  at  sixty,  your  father  at  sixty-five : 
And  Willy,  my  eldest-borni,  at  nigh  threescore  and  ten : 
I  knew  them  all  as  babies,  and  now  they're  elderly  men. 


For  mme  is  a  time  of  peace,  it  is  not  often  I  grieve  : 
I  am  oftener  sitting  at  home  in  my  father's  farm  at  eve : 
And  the  neighbors  come  and  laugh  and  gossip,  and  so  do  I ; 
I  find  myself  often  laughing  at  things  that  have  long  gone  by. 


To  be  sure  the  preacher  says,  our  sins  should  make  us  sad : 
But  mine  is  a  time  of  peace,  and  there  is  Grace  to  be  had  ; 
And  God,  not  man,  is  the  Judge  of  us  all  when  life  shall  cease  j 
And  in  this  Book,  little  Annie,  the  message  is  one  of  Peace. 


NOR  '^HERN  FARMER.  Z^  ^ 


And  age  is  a  time  of  peace,  so  it  be  free  from  pain, 
And  happy  has  been  my  life  ;  but  I  would  not  live  it  again. 
I  seem  to  be  tired  a  little,  that's  all,  and  long  for  rest : 
Only  at  your  age,  Annie,  I  could  have  wept  with  the  best. 


So  Willie  has  gone,  my  beauty,  my  eldest-born,  my  flower; 
But  how  can  I  weep  for  Willy,  he  has  but  gone  for  an  hour,— 
Gone  for  a  minute,  my  son,  from  this  room  into  the  next ; 
I  too,  shall  go  in  a  minute.     What  time  have  I  to  be  vext  ? 


And  Willy's  wife  has  written,  she  never  was  over-wise. 
Get  me  my  glasses,  Annie  :  thank  God  that  I  keep  my  eyes. 
There  is  but  a  trifle  left  you,  when  I  shall  have  passed  away. 
But  stay  with  the  old  woman  now :  you  cannot  have  long  to  stay* 


NORTHERN  FARMER. 

OLD  STYLE. 


Wheer  'asta  bean  saw  long  and  mea  liggin*  'ere  aloan  ? 
Noorse?  thoort  nowt  o'  a  noorse  ;  whoy,  doctor's  abean  an'  agoant 
Says  that  I  moant  'a  naw  moor  yaale  :  but  I  beant  a  fool : 
Git  ma  my  yaale,  for  I  beant  a-gooin'  to  break  my  rule. 


Doctors,  they  knaws  nowt,  for  a  says  what's  nawways  true : 
Naw  soort  o'  koind  o'  use  to  saay  the  things  that  a  ^o. 
I've  'ed  my  point  o'  yaale  ivry  noight  sin'  I  bean  'ere, 
An'  I  've  'ed  my  quart  ivry  market-noight  for  foorty  year. 

in. 
Person  's  a  bean  loikewoise,  an'  a  sittin  'ere  o'  my  bed. 
**  The  amoighty  's  a  taakin  o'  you  to  'issen,  my  friend,"  'a  said, 
An'  a  towd  ma  my  sins,  an  's  toithe  were  due,  an'  I  gied  it  in  hond; 
I  done  my  duty  by  un,  as  I  'a  done  by  the  lond. 

IV. 
Larn'd  a  ma'  bea.     I  reckons  I  'annot  sa  mooch  to  larn. 
But  a  cost  oop,  thot  a  did,  'boot  Bessy  Harris's  barn. 
Thof  a  knaws  I  hall-us  voated  wi'  Squoire  an'  choorch  an  sta'dte, 
An'  i'  the  woost  o'  toimes  I  wur  niver  agin  the  raate. 


382  NORTHERN  FARMER. 


An'  I  hallus  corned  to  's  choorch  afoor  my  Sally  wur  dead, 
An'  'eerd  un  a  bummin'  avvaay  loike  a  buzzard-clock*  ower  my  yead, 
An'  I  niver  kuaw'd  whot  a  mean'd  but  I  thowt  a  'ad  summut  to  saay. 
An'  I  thowt  a  said  whot  a  owt  to  'a  said  an'  I  corned  awaay. 

VI. 

Bessy  Harris's  barn  !  tha  knaws  she  laaid  it  to  mea. 
Mowt  a  bean,  mayhap,  for  she  wur  a  bad  un,  shea. 
'Siver,  I  kep  un,  I  kep  un,  my  lass,  tha  mun  understond; 
I  done  my  duty  by  un  as  I  'a  dont  by  the  lond. 

VII. 

But  Parson  a  comes  an'  a  goos,  an'  a  says  it  easy  an'  freea 

"  The  amoighty  's  a  taakin  o'  you  to  'issen,  my  friend,"  says  'ea. 

I  weant  saay  men  be  loiars,  thof  summun  said  it  in  'aaste  : 

But  a- reads  wonn  sarmin  a  vveeak,  an'  I'a  stubb'd  Thornaby  waaste. 

VIII. 

D*  ya  moind  the  waaste,  my  lass  ?  naw,  naw,  tha  was  not  born  then ; 

Theer  wur  a  boggle  in  it,  I  often  'eerd  un  mysen  : 

Moast  loike  a  butter-bump,  t  for  I  'eerd  un  aboot  an  aboot. 

But  I  stubb'd  un  oop  wi'  the  lot,  and  raaved  an'  rembled  un  cot. 


Keaper's  it  wur ;  fo'  they  fun  un  theer  a  laaid  on  'is  faace 
Doon  i'  the  woild  'enemies  }  afoor  I  comed  to  the  plaace. 
Noaks  or  Thimbleby — toner  'ed  shot  an  as  dead  as  a  naail. 
Noaks  wur  'ang'd  for  it  oop  at  'soize — but  git  ma  my  yaale. 


Dubbut  looak  at  the  waaste  :  theer  war  n't  not  fead  for  a  cow ; 
Nowt  at  all  but  bracken  an'  fuzz,  an'  looak  at  it  now — 
War  n't  worth  nowt  a  haacre,  an'  now  theer  's  lots  o'  fead, 
Fourscore  yows  upon  it  an'  some  on  it  doon  in  sead. 


Nobbut  a  bit  on  it  's  left,  an'  I  mean'd  to  'a  stubb'd  it  at  fall, 
Done  it  ta-year  I  mean'd,  an'  runn'd  plow  thruff  it  an'  all, 
If  godamoighty  an'  parson  'ud  nobbut  let  ma  aloan, 
Mea,  wi'  haate  oonderd  haacre  o'  Squoire's  an'  load  o'  my  can. 

XII. 

Do  godamoighty  knaw  what  a  's  doing  a-taakin'  o'  mea  ? 

I  beant  wonn  as  saws  'ere  a  bean  an'  yonder  a  pea; 

An'  Squoire  *ull  be  sa  mad  an'  all — a'  dear  a'  dear ! 

And  I  *a  monaged  for  Squoire  come  Michaelmas  thirty  year. 


'  Cockchafer.  t  Bittern.  %  Anemones* 


TITHONUS. 


Z'^l 


XIII. 

A  mowt  'a  taaken  Joanes,  as  'ant  a  'aapoth  o'  sense. 
Or  a  mowt  'a  taalcen  Robins — a  niver  mended  a  fence : 
But  godamoighty  amoost  taake  mea  an'  taake  ma  now 
Wi'  auf  the  cows  to  cauve  an'  Thornaby  holms  to  plow  I 


Looak  'ow  quoloty  smoiles  when  they  sees  ma  a  passin'  by. 

Says  to  thessen  naw  doot  "what  a  mon  a  be  sewer-ly  1 " 

For  they  knaws  what  I  bean  to  Squoire  sin  fust  a  corned  to  the  'All| 

I  done  my  duty  by  Squoire  an'  I  done  my  duty  by  all. 

XV. 

Squoire  's  in  Lunnon,  an'  summun  I  reckons  'ull  'a  to  wroite, 
For  who  *s  to  howd  the  lond  ater  mea  thot  muddles  ma  quoit; 
Sartin-sewer  I  bea,  thot  a  weant  niver  give  it  to  Joanes, 
Noither  a  moant  to  Robins — a  niver  rembles  the  stoans. 

XVI. 

But  summun  'ull  come  ater  mea  mayhap  wi'  'is  kittle  o*  steam 
Huzzin'  an'  maazin'  the  blessed  fealds  wi'  the  Divil's  oan  team 
Gin  I  mun  doy  I  mun  doy,  an'  loife  they  says  is  sweet, 
But  gin  I  mun  doy  I  mun  doy,  for  I  couldn  abear  to  see  it. 

XVII. 

What  atta  stannin'  theer  for,  an'  doesn  bring  ma  the  yaale  ? 
Doctor  's  a  'tottler,  lass,  and  a  's  hallus  i'  the  owd  taale ; 
I  weant  break  rules  for  Doctor,  a  knaws  naw  moor  nor  a  floy; 
Git  ma  my  yaale  I  tell  tha,  an'  gin  I  mun  doy  I  mun  doy. 


TITHONUS. 

The  woods  decay,  the  woods  decay 

and  fall, 
The  vapors  weep  their  burthen  to  the 

ground, 
Man  comes  and  tills  the  field  and  lies 

beneath, 
And  after  many  a  summer  dies  the 

swan. 
Me  only  cruel  immortality 
Consumes:    I  wither  slowly  in  thine 

arms, 
Here  at  the  quiet  limit  of  the  world, 
A  white-hair'd  shadow  roaming  like  a 

dream 


The  ever  silent  spaces  of  the  East, 
Far-folded  mists,  and  gleaming  halls  of 
morn. 

Alas !  for  this  gray  shadow,  once  a 

man — 
So  glorious    in    his  beauty  and    thy 

choice, 
Who  madcst  him  thy  chosen,  that  he 

seem'd 
To  his  great  heart  none  other  than  a 

God! 
I  ask'd  thee  "  Give  me  immortality." 
Then  didst  thou  grant  mine  asking  "erith 

a  smile, 


384 


TITHONUS. 


Like  wealthy  men  who  care  not  how 

they  give. 
But  thy  strong  Hours  indignant  work'd 

their  wills, 
And  beat  me  down  and  marred  and 

wasted  me, 
And  tho'  they  could  not  end  me,  left 

me  maim'd 
To  dwell    in    presence    of    immortal 

youth. 
Immortal  age  beside  immortal  youth, 
And  all   I   was,   in  ashes.     Can   thy 

love, 
Thy  beauty  make  amends,  tho'  even 

now, 
Close  over    us,  the    silver    star,  thy 

guide, 
Shines  in  those  tremulous  eyes  that 

•  fill  with  tears 
To  hear  me .''    Let  me  go :  take  back 

thy  gift  : 
Why  should  a    man  desire  in    any 

way 
To  vary  from  the  kindly  race  of  men. 
Or  pass  beyond  the  goal  of  ordinance 
Where   all  should  pause,  as  is  most 

meet  for  all .-' 


A  soft  air  fans  the  cloud  apart :  there 

comes 
A  glimpse  of  that  dark  world  where  I 

was  born. 
Once  more  the  old  mysterious  glimmer 

steals 
From  thy  pure  brows,  and  from  thy 

shoulders  pure, 
And  bosom  beating  with  a  heart  re- 

new'd. 
Thy  cheek  begins  to  redden  thro'  the 

gloom, 
Thy  sweet  eyes  brighten  slowly  close 

to  mine. 
Ere  yet  they  blind  the  stars,  and  the 

vvild  team 
Which  love  thee,  yearning  for  thy  yoke, 

arise. 
And  shake   the  darkness  from  their 

loosen'd  manes, 
And  beat  the  twilight  into  flakes  of 

fire. 


Lo  !  ever  thus  thou  growest  beau- 
tiful 

In  silence,  then  before  thine  answer 
given 

Departest,  and  thy  tears  are  on  my 
cheek. 

Why  wilt  thou  ever  scare  me  with 

thy  tears. 
And  make  me  tremble  lest  a  saying 

learnt 
In  days  far-off,  on  that  dark  earth,  be 

true .'' 
"The  Gods  themselves  cannot  recall 

their  gifts." 

Ay  me  !  ay  me  !  with  what  another 

heart 
In  days  far-off,  and  with  what  other 

eyes 
I  used   to  watch  —  if  I  be    he    that 

vvatch'd — 
The  lucid  outline  forming  round  thee , 

saw 
The  dim  curls  kindle  into  sunny  rings; 
Changed  with  thy  mystic  change  and 

felt  my  blood 
Glow  with'  the  glow  that  slowly  crim 

son'd  all 
Thy  presence  and  thy  portals,  while  T 

lay. 
Mouth,    forehead,    eyelids,     growing 

dewy-warm 
With  kisses  balmier  than  half-opening 

buds 
Of  April,  and  could  hear  the  lips  that 
1  kiss'd 

,  Whispering  I  knew  not  what  of  wild 
1  and  sweet, 

:  Like  that  strange  song  I  heard  Apollo 

sing, 
While    Ilion    like   a  mist    rose    into 

towers. 

Yet  hold  me  not  .orever  in  thine 

East: 
How  can  my  nature  longer  mix  with 

thine  ? 
Coldly  thy  rosy  shadows  bathe  me, 

cold 
Are  all  thy  lights,  and  cold  my  wrinkled 

feet 


THE  VOYAGE. 


38s 


Upon  thy  glimmering  thresholds,  when 

the  steam 
Floats  up  from  those  dim  fields  about 

the  homes 
Of  happy  men  that  have  the  power  to 

die, 
And   grassy  barrows   of   the   happier 

dead. 
Release   me,   and   restore   me   to   the 

ground  : 
Thou  seest  all  things,  thou  wilt  see  my 

grave ; 
Thou  wilt  renew  thy  beauty  morn  by 

morn; 
I  earth  in  earth  forget   these   empty 

courts. 
And    thee     returning    on    thy    silver 

wheels. 


THE  VOYAGE. 


We  left  behind  the  painted  buoy 

That  tosses  at  the  harbor-mouth : 
And  madly  danced  our  hearts  with  joy, 

As  fast  we  fleeted  to  the  South : 
How  fresh  was  every  sight  and  sound 

On  open  main  or  winding  shore  ! 
We  knew  the  merry  world  was  round, 

And  we  might  sail  forevermore. 


Warm  broke  the  breeze  against  the 
brow, 
Dry  sang  the  tackle,  sang  the  sail : 
The  Lady's-head  upon  the  prow 

Caught  the  shrill  salt,  and  sheer'd 
the  gale. 
The   broad  seas   swell'd  to  meet   the 
keel, 
And   swept  behind:    so   quick   the 
run, 
We  felt  the  good  ship  shake  and  reel, 
We  seem'd  to  sail  into  the  Sun  ! 


Row  oft  we  saw  the  Sun  retire. 

And  burn  the  threshold  of  the  hight, 

^'all  from  his  Ocean-lane  of  fire. 

And  sleep  beneath  his  pillar'd  light! 


How  oft  the  purple-skirted  robe 

Of  twilight  slowly  downward  drawn, 

As  thro'  the  slumber  of  the  globe 
Again  we  dash'd  into  the  dawn  I 


New  stars  all  night  above  the  brim 

Of  waters  lighten'd  into  view; 
They  climb'd  as  quickly,  for  the  rim 

Changed  every  moment  as  we  flew. 
Far  ran  the  naked  moon  across 

The  houseless  ocean  s  heaving  field, 
Or  flying  shone,  the  silver  boss 

Of  her  own  halo's  dusky  shield; 


The  peaky  islet  shifted  shapes, 

High   towns    on    hills   were    dimly 
seen, 
We  past  long  lines  of  Northern  capes 

And  dewy  Northern  meadows  green. 
We  came  to  warmer  waves,  and  deep 

Across  the  boundless  east  we  drove, 
Where  those  long  swells   of  breaker 
sweep 

The  nutmeg  rocks  and  isles  of  clove. 


By  peaks  that  flamed,  or,  all  in  shade, 

Gloom'd  the  low  coast  and  quiver- 
ing brine 
With  ashy  rains,  that  spreading  made 

Fantastic  plume  or  sable  pine  ; 
By    sands   and    streaming    flats,   and 
floods 

Of  mighty  mouth,  we  scudded  fast, 
And  hills  and  scarlet-mingled  woods 

Glow'd  for  a  moment  as  we  past. 


O  hundred  shores  of  happy  climes, 

How  swiftly  stream'd  ye  by  the  bark ! 
At  times  the  whole  sea  burn'd,  at  times 

With  wakes  ©f  fire  we  tore  the  dark ; 
At  times  the  carven  craft  would  slioot 

From  havens  hid  in  fairy  bovvers, 
With  naked  limbs  and  flowers  and  fruit, 

But   we  nor   paused  for   fruits  nor 
flowers. 


585 


THE  P LOWER. 


VIII. 

For  one  fair  Vision  ever  fled 

Down  the    waste    waters    day   and 
night, 
And  still  we  follow' d  where  she  led 

In  hope  to  gain  upon  her  flight. 
Her  face  was  evermore  unseen, 

And  fixt  upon  the  far  sea-line  ; 
But  each  man  murmured,"  O  my  Queen, 

I  follow  till  I  make  thee  mine." 

IX. 

And  now  we  lost  her,  now  she  gleam'd 

Like  Fancy  made  of  golden  air. 
Now  nearer  to  the  prow  she  seem'd 

Like    Virtue  firm,  like  Knowledge 
fair, 
Now  high  on  waves  that  idly  burst 

Like  Heavenly  Hope   she  crown'd 
the  sea. 
And  now,  the  bloodless  point  reversed. 

She  bore  the  blade  of  Liberty. 


And  only  one  among  us — him 

We    pleased  not — he  was    seldom 
pleased : 
He  saw  not  far  :  his  eyes  were  dim  : 

But  ours  he  swore  was  all  diseased. 
**  A  ship  of  fools,"  he  shriek'd  in  spite, 

"  A   ship  of  fools,"  he  sneer'd   and 
wept. 
And  overboard  one  stormy  night 

He  cast  his  body,  and  on  we  swept. 

XI. 

And  never  sail  of  ours  was  furl'd 

Nor  anchor  dropt  at  eve  or  morn  ; 
We  loved  the  glories  of  the  world. 

But  laws  of  nature  were  our  scorn ; 
For  blasts  would  rise  and  rave  and 
cease, 

But  whence  were  those  that  drove 
the  sail 
Across  the  whirlwind's  heart  of  peace. 

And  to  and  thro'  the  counter-gale  ? 


Again  to  colder  climes  we  came, 
For  still  we  f oUow'd  where  she  led : 


Now  mate  is  blind  and  captain  lame, 
And  half  the  crew  are  sick  or  dead. 

But  blind  or  lame  or  sick  or  sound 
We  follow'd  that  which  flies  before; 

We  know  the  merry  world  is  round. 
And  we  may  sail  forevermore. 


IN     THE     VALLEY     OF     CAU- 
TERETZ. 

All  along  the  valley,  stream  that 
flashest  white. 

Deepening  thy  voice  with  the  deepen- 
ing of  the  night, 

All  along  the  valley,  where  thy  waters 
flow, 

I  walk'd  with  one  I  loved  two  and 
thirty  years  ago. 

All  along  the  valley  vhile  I  walk'd  to- 
day, 

The  two  and  thirty  years  were  a  inist 
that  rolls  away  ; 

For  all  along  the  valley,  down  thy 
rocky  bed, 

Thy  living  voice  to  me  was  as  the  voice 
of  the  dead. 

And  all  along  the  valley,  by  rock  and 
cave  and  tree, 

The  voice  of  the  dead  was  as  a  living 
voice  to  me. 


THE  FLOWER. 

Once  in  a  golden  hour 
I  cast  to  earth  a  seed. 

Up  there  came  a  flower, 
The  people  said,  a  weed 

To  and  fro  they  went 
Thro'  my  garden-bower, 

And  muttering  discontent 
Cursed  me  and  my  flower. 

Then  it  grew  so  tall 

It  wore  a  crown  of  light, 

But  thicve-i  from  o'er  the  wall 
Stole  the  seed  by  night. 


THE  ISLET. 


•387 


Sow'd  it  far  "and  wide 
By  every  town  and  tower, 

Till  all  the  people  cried, 
"  Splendid  is  the  flower." 

Read  my  little  fable  : 
He  that  runs  may  read. 

Most  can  raise  the  flowers  now, 
For  all  have  got  the  seed. 

And  some  are  pretty  enough, 
And  some  are  poor  indeed  ; 

And  now  again  the  people 
Call  it  but  a  weed. 


REQUIESCAT. 

Fair  is  her  cottage  in  its  place, 
Where    yon    broad    water  sweetly, 
slowly  glides. 

It  sees  itself  from  thatch  to  base 
Dream  in  the  sliding  tides. 

And  fairer   she,  but  ah,  how  soon  to 
die! 
Her  quiet  dream  of  life  this  hour 
may  cease. 
Her  peaceful  being  slowly  passes  by 
To  some  more  perfect  peace. 


THE  SAILOR-BOY. 

He  rose  at  dawn  and,  fired  with  hope. 
Shot  o'er  the  seething  harbor-bar, 

And  reach'd  the  ship  and  caught  the 
rope, 
And  whistled  to  the  morning  star. 

And  while  he  whistled  long  and  loud 
He  heard  a  fierce  mermaiden  cry, 

"  O    Boy,   tho'  thou    art    young    and 
proud, 
I  see  the  place  where  thou  wilt  lie. 

'-*  The  sands  and  yeasty  surges  mix 
In  caves  about  the  dreary  bay, 

And  on  thy  ribs  the  limpet  sticks, 
And  in  thy  heart  the  scrawl  shall 
play." 


"  Fool,"  he  answer'd,  "  death  is  sur«> 
To  those  that  stay  and  those   that 
roam, 
But  I  will  neTcrmore  endure 

To  sit  with  empty  hands  at  home. 

"My  mother  clings  about  my  neck. 
My  sisters  crying,  *  Stay,  for  shame  ; ' 

My  father  raves  of  death  and  wreck. 
They  are  all  to  blame,  they  are  all  to 
blame. 

"  God  help  me  !  save  I  take  my  part 
Of  danger  on  the  roaring  sea, 

A  devil  rises  in  my  heart, 

Far  worse  than  any  death  to  me." 


THE  ISLET, 

"  Whither,  O  whither,  love,  shall  we 

go, 
For  a  score  of  sweet  little  summers  cr 

so } " 
The  sweet  little  wife  of  the  singer  said 
On  the  day  that  foUow'd  the  day  she 

was  wed  : 
"Whither,  O  whither,  love,  shall   we 

go.?" 
And  the  singer  shaking  his  curly  head 
Turn'd  as  he  sat,  and  struck  the  keys 
There  at  his  right  with  a  sudden  crash. 
Singing,  "  And  shall   it  be   over  the 

seas 
With  a  crew  that  is  neither  rude  nor 

rash. 
But  a  bevy  of  Eroses  apple-cheek'd, 
In  a  shallop  of  crystal  ivory-beak'd. 
With  a  satin  sail  of  a  ruby  glow, 
To  a  sweet  little  Eden  on  earth  that  I 

know, 
A  mountain  islet  pointed  and  peak'd , 
Waves  on  a  diamond  shingle  dash, 
Cataract  brooks  to  the  ocean  run, 
Fairily-delicate  palaces  shine 
Mixt  with  myrtle  and  clad  with  vine, 
And  overstream'd  and  silvery-streak'd 
With  many  a  rivulet  high  against  tne 

Sun 
The  facets  of  the  glorious  mountain 

flash 


3^3 


A   WELCOME  TO  ALEXANDRA. 


Above  the  valleys-rif  palm  and  pine." 
"  Thither,  O  thither,  loye,  let  us  go." 

"  No,  no,  no  ! 

For  in  ail  that  exquisite  isle,  my  dear, 

There  is  but  one  bird  with  a   musical 

throat. 
And  his  compass  is  but  of  a  single 

note, 
That  it  makes  one  weary  to  hear." 
"  Mock  me  not !  mock  me  not !  love, 

let  us  go." 

"  No,  love,  no. 

For  the  bud  ever  breaks  into  bloom  on 

the  tree. 
And  a  storm  never  wakes  on  the  lonely 

sea, 
And   a  worm   is   there   in   the   lonely 

wood, 
That  pierces  the  liver  and  blackens  the 

blood. 
And  makes  it  a  sorrow  to  be." 


THE  RINGLET. 

"  Your  ringlets,  your  ringlets, 

That  look  so  golden-gay. 
If  you  will  give  me  one,  but  one, 

To  kiss  it  night  and  day, 
Then  never  chilling  touch  of  Time 

Will  turn  it  silver-gray  ; 
And  then  shall  I  know  it  is  all  true 

.  golcl 
To  flame  and  sparkle  and  stream  as  of 

old, 
Till  all  the  comets  in  heaven  are  cold. 

And  all  her  stars  decay." 
*•  Then  take  it,  love,  and  put  it  by  ; 
This  cannot  change,  nor  yet  can  I." 


"  My  ringlet,  my  ringlet. 

That  art  so  golden-gay, 
Now  never  chilling  touch  of  Time 

Can  turn  thee  silver-gray  ; 
And  a  lad  may  wink,  and  a  girl  may 
hint, 
And  a  fool  may  say  his  say ; 
For  my  doubts  and    fears    were    all 
amiss. 


And  I  swear  henceforth  by  this   and 

this. 
That  a  doubt  will  only  come  for  a  kiss, 

And  a  fear  to  be  kiss'd  away." 
"Then  kiss  it,  love,  and  put  it  by : 
If  this  can  change,  why  so  can  I.'' 

0  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

I  kiss'd  you  night  and  day. 
And  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

You  still  are  golden-gay. 
But  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

You  should  be  silver-gray  : 
For  what  is  this  which  now  I'm  told, 

1  that  took  you  for  true  gold. 

She  that  gave  you's  bought  and  sold, 
Sold,  sold. 


O  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

She  blush'd  a  rosy  red. 
When  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

She  dipt  you  from  her  head. 
And  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

She  gave  you  me,  and  said, 
"Come,  kiss  it,  love,  and  put  it  by: 
If  this  can  change,  why  so  can  I." 
O  fie,  you  golden,nothing,  fie. 
You  golden  lie. 

3- 
O  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

I  count  you  much  to  blame, 
For  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

You  put  me  much  to  shame. 
So  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

I  doom  you  to  th^  flame. 
For  what  is  this  which  now  I  learn. 
Has  given  all  my  faith  a  turn  'i 
Burn,  you  glossy  heretic,  burn, 
Burn,  burn. 


A  WELCOME  TO  ALEXANDRA. 

March  7,  1863. 

Sea-kings'  daughter  from  over  the  sea, 
Alexandra  1 
Saxon  and  Norman  and  Dane  nre  we, 
But  all  of  us  Danes  in  our  welcome  of 
thee, 


Alexandra  I 
Welcome  her,  thunders  of  fort  and  of 

fleet  I 
Welcome  her,  thundering  cheer  of  the 

street  1 
Welcome  her,  all  things  youthful   and 

sweet, 
Scatter  the  blossom  under  her  feet ! 
Break,  happy  land,  into  earlier  flowers  ! 
Make  music,  O  bird,  in  the  new-bud- 
ded bowers: 
Blazon  your  mottoes  of  blessing  and 

prayer ! 
Welcome  her,  welcome  her,  all  that  is 

ours! 
Warble,  O  bugle,  and  trumpet,  blare  ! 
Flags,  flutter  out    upon  turrets    and 

towers ! 
Flames,  on  the  windy  headland  flare  ! 
Utter  your  jubilee,  steeple  and  spire ! 
Clash,  ye   bells,  in  the  merry  March 

air ! 
Flash,  ye  cities,  in  rivers  of  fire ! 
Rush  to  the  roof,  sudden  rocket,  and 

higher 
Melt  into  the  stars  for  the  land's  desire ! 
Roll  and  rejoice,  jubilant  voice, 
Roll  as  a  ground-swell  dash'd  on  the 

strand, 
Roar  as  the  sea  when  he  welcomes  the 

land. 
And  welcome  her,  welcome  the  land's 

desire. 
The  sea-kings'   daughter  as  happy  as 

fair, 
Blissful  bride  of  a  blissful  heir. 
Bride  of  the  heir  of  the  kings  of  the 

sea — 
O  joy  to  the  people,  and  joy  to  the 

throne. 
Come  to  us,  love  us,  and  make  us  your 

own : 
For  Saxon  or  Dane  or  Norman  we. 
Teuton  or  Celt,  or  whatever  we  be. 
We  are  each  all  Dane  in  our  welcome 

of  thee, 

Alexandra  ! 


ODE  SUNG  AT  THE  OPENING 
OF  THE  INTERNATIONAL 
EXHIBITION. 

Uplift  a  thousand    voices  full  and 
sweet. 
In  this  wide  hall  with  earth's  inver> 

tion  stored. 
And   praise   th'   invisible  universal 
Lord, 
Who    lets   once    more   in  peace   the 
nations  meet. 
Where  Science,  Art,  and  Labor  have 
outpour'd 
Their  myriad  horns  of  plenty  at  our 
feet. 

O  silent  father  of  our  Kings  to  be 
Mourn'd  in  this  golden  hour  of  jubilee, 
For  this,  for  all,  we  weep  our  thanks  to 
theel 

The  world-compelling  plan  was  thine, 

And  lo  !  the  long  laborious  miles 

Of  Palace  ;  lo  !   the  giant  aisles. 

Rich  in  model  and  design  ; 

Harvest-tool  and  husbandry. 

Loom  and  wheel  and  engin'ry. 

Secrets  of  the  sullen  mine, 

Steel  and  gold,  and  corn  and  wine, 

Fabric  rough,  or  Fairy  fine. 

Sunny  tokens  of  the  tine. 

Polar  marvels,  and  a  feast 

Of  wonder  out  of  West  and  East, 

And  shapes  and  hues  of  Art  divine ! 

All  of  beauty,  all  of  use. 

That  one  fair  planet  can  produce. 

Brought  from  under  every  star, 
Blown  from  over  every  main. 
And  mixt,  as  life  is  mixt  with  pain, 

The  works  of  peace  with  works  of 
war. 

O  ye,  the  wise  who  think,  the  wise  who 
reign, 

From  growing  commerce  loose  her 
latest  chain, 

And  let  the  fair  white-winged  peace- 
maker fly 

To  happy  heavens  under  all  the  sky. 

And  mix  the  seasons  and  the  golden 
hours, 


39° 


Tim  CAPTAW, 


Till  each  man  finds  his  own  in  all 
men's  good, 

And  all  men  work  in  noble  brother- 
hood, 

Breaking  their  mailed  fleets  and  armed 
towers. 

And  ruling  by  obeying  Nature's 
powers, 

And  gathering  all  the  fruits  of  peace 
£rd  crown'd  with  all  her  flowers. 


A   DEDICATION. 

Dear,  near  and  true — no  truer  Time 

himself 
Can  prove  you,  tho'  he  make  you  ever- 
more 
Dearer  and  nearer,  as  the  rapid  of  life 
Shoots  to  the  fall — take  this,  and  pray 

that  he, 
Who  wrote   it,   honoring  your  sweet 

faith  in  him, 
May  trust  himself ;  and  spite  of  praise 

and  scorn, 
As  one   who  feels  the  immeasurable 

world. 
Attain   the    wise  indifference   of   the 

wise ; 
And  after  Autumn  past — if  left  to  pass 
His     autumn  ^into     seeming-leafless 

days — 
Draw  toward  the  long  frost  and  longest 

night, 
Wearing  his  wisdom  lightly,  like  the 

fruit 
Which  in  our  winter  woodland  looks  a 

flower.  * 


THE   CAPTAIN. 

A  LEGEND  OF  THE  NAVY. 

He  that  only  rules  by  terror 
Doeth  grievous  wrong. 

Deep  as  Hell  I  count  his  error 
Let  him  hear  my  song. 

*  The  fruit  of  the  Spindle-tree   {Euonymus 
Euf^pceus). 


Brave  the  Captain  was  ;  the  seamen 

Made  a  gallant  crew, 
Gallant  sons  of  English  freemen, 

Sailors  bold  and  true. 
But  they  hated  his  oppression. 

Stern  he  was  and  rash  ; 
So  for  every  light  transgression 

Doom'd  them  to  the  lash. 
Day  by  day  more  harsh  and  cruel 

Seem'd  the  Captain's  mood. 
Secret  wrath  like  smother'd  fuel 

Burnt  in  each  man's  blood. 
Yet  he  hoped  to  purchase  glory, 

Hoped  to  make  the  name 
Of  his  vessel  great  in  story, 

Wheiesoe'er  he  came. 
So  they  past  by  capes  and  islands, 

Many  a  harbor-mouth, 
Sailing  under  palmy  highlands 

Far  within  the  South. 
On  a  day  when  they  were  going 

O'er  the  lone  expanse, 
In  the  North,  her  canvas  flowing, 

Rose  a  ship  of  France. 
Then  the  Captain's  color  heighten'd^ 

Joyful  came  his  speech  : 
But  a  cloudy  gladness  lighten'd 

In  the  eyes  of  each. 
•*  Chase,"  he  said :  the  ship  flew  for- 
ward. 
And  the  wind  did  blow ; 
Stately,  lightly,  went  she  Norward, 

Till  she  near'd  the  foe. 
Then  they  look'd  at  him  they  hated, 

Had  what  they  desired  : 
Mute  with  folded  arms  they  waited — 

Not  a  gun  was  fired. 
But  they  heard  the  foeman's  thunder 

Roaring  out  their  doom  ; 
All  the  air  was  torn  in  sunder. 

Crashing  went  the  boom, 
Spars  were  splinter'd,  decks  were  shat-i 
ter'd. 
Bullets  fell  like  rain  ; 
Over  mast  and  deck  were  scatter'd 

Blood  and  brains  of  men. 
Spars    were    splinter'd  :    decks  were 
broken : 
Every  mother's  son — 
Down     they    dropt — no     word    was 
spoken — 


THREE  SONNETS  TO  A  COQUETTE. 


391 


•  Each  beside  his  gun. 
On  the  decks  as  they  were  lying. 

Were  their  faces  grim. 
In  their  blood,  as  they  lay  dying, 

Did  they  smile  on  him. 
Those,  in  whom  he  had  reliance 

For  his  noble  name, 
With  one  smile  of  still  defiance 

Sold  him  unto  shame. 
Shame    and    wrath    his    heart    con- 
founded, 

Pale  he  turn'd  and  red. 
Till  himself  was  deadly  wounded 

Falling  on  the  dead. 
Dismal  error  !  fearful  slaughter! 

Years  have  wander'd  by, 
Side  by  side  beneath  the  water 

Crew  and  Captain  He  ; 
There  the  sunlit  ocean  tosses 

O'er  them  mouldering, 
And  the  lonely  seabird  crosses 

With  one  waft  of  the  wing. 


THREE    SONNETS     TO    A    CO- 
QUETTE. 

Caress'd  or  chidden  by  the    dainty 
hand. 
And  singing  airy  trifles  this  or  that. 
Light   Hope  at  Beauty's  call    would 
perch  and  stand, 
And  run  thro'  every  change  of  sharp 

and  flat  : 
And  Fancy  came  and  at  her  pillow 
sat ;  ,  [band, 

When  Sleep  had  bound  her  in  his  rosy 
And  chased  away  the  still-recurring 
gnat, 
And  woke  her  with  a  lay  from  fairy 
land.  [less, 

But  now  they  live  with  Beauty  less  and 
For  Hope  is  other  Hope  and  wan- 
ders far, 
Nor  cares  to  lisp  in  love's  delicious 
creeds  ; 
And  Fancy  watches  in  the  wilderness, 
Poor  Fancy  sadder  than    a  single 

star/ 
That  sets  at  twilight  in  a  land  of 
reeds. 


The  form,  the  form  alone  is  eloquent ! 
A  nobler  yearning  never  broke  her 

rest 
Than  but  to  dance  and  sing,  be  gayly 
drest,  [ment : 

And  win  all  eyes  with  all  accomplish- 
Yet  in  the  waltzing-circle  as  we  went, 
My  fancy   made  me  for  a  moment 

blest 
To  find  my  heart  so  near  the  beaute 
ous  breast 
That  once  had  power  to  rob  jt^of  con- 
tent. 
A  moment  came  the  tenderness  of  tears, 
The  phantom  of  a  wish  that  once 
could  move, 
A  ghost  of  passion  that  no  smiles 
restore — 
For  ah  !  the  slight  coquette,  she  can- 
not love, 
And  if  you  kiss'd  her  feet  a  thousand 
years, 
She  still   would  take  the  praise, 
and  care  no  more 

3- 

Wan  Sculptor,  weepest  thou  to  take 
the  cast 
Of  those  dead  lineaments  that  near 
thee  lie  ? 

0  sorrowest  thou,  pale  Painter,  for  the 

past, 
In  painting  some  dead  friend  from 
memory  "i 
Weep  on  :  beyond  his  object  Love  can 
last: 
His  object  lives:  more  cause  to  weep 
have  I : 
My  tears,  no  tears  of  love,  are  flowing 
fast, 
No  tears  of  love,  but  tears  that  Love 
can  die. 

1  pledge  her  not  in  any  cheerful  cup. 
Nor  care  to  oit  beside  her  where  she 

sits — 
Ah    pity — hint   it   not    in   human 
tones. 
But  breathe  it  into  earth  and  close  it  up 
With  secret  death  forever,  in  the  pits 
Which     some    green     Christmas 
crams  with  weary  bones. 


392 


SOATG. 


ON  A  MOURNER, 

Nature,  so  far  as  in  her  lies, 
Imitates  God,  and  turns  her  face 

To  every  land  beneath  the  skies, 
Counts  nothing  that  she  meets  with 

base, 
But  lives  and  loves  in  every  place  ; 


Fills  out  the  homely  quick-set  screens, 
And  makes  the  purple  lilac  ripe. 

Steps  from  her  airy  hill,  and  greens 
The^svi^amp,  where   hums  the  drop- 
ping snipe, 
With  moss  and  braided  marish-pipe ; 


And  on  thy  heart  a  finger  lays, 

Saying,  "  Beat  quicker,  for  the  time 

Is  pleasant,  and  the  woods  and  ways 
Are  pleasant,  and  the  beech  and  lime 
Put  forth  and  feel  a  gladder  clime." 


And  murmurs  of  a  deeper  voice, 
Going  before  to  some  far  shrine. 

Teach     that  sick  heart  the  stronger 
choice, 
Till  all  thy  life  one  way  incline 
With  one  wide  will  that  closes  thine. 


And  when  the  zoning  eve  has  died 

Where  yon  dark  valleys  wind  forlorn. 
Come  Hope  and  Memory,  spouse  and 
bride. 
From  out  the  borders  of  the  morn. 
With  that  fair  child  betwixt  them 
born. 


And  when  no  mortal  motion  jars 
The  blackness  round  the  tombing 
sod, 


Thro'  silence  and  the  trembling  stars 
Comes    Faith   from  tracts  no    feet 

have  trod, 
And  Virtue,  like  a  household  god. 


Promising  empire  ;  such  as  those 
That  once  at  dead  of  night  did  greet 

Troy's   wandering  prince,  so  that  he 
rose 
With  sacrifice,  while  all  the  fleet 
Had  rest  by  stony  hills  of  Crete. 


SONG. 

Lady,  let  the  rolling  drums 
Beat  to  battle  where  thy  warrior  stands : 
Now  thy  face  across  his  fancy  comes, 

And  gives  the  battle  to  his  hands. 

Lady,  let  the  trumpets  blow, 
Clasp  thy  little  babes  about  thy  knee  : 
Now  their  warrior  father  meets  the  foe, 

And  strikes  him  dead  for  thine  and 
thee. 


SONG. 

Home  they  brought  him  slain    with 
spears, 
They  brought  him  home  at  even-fall : 
All  alone  she  sits  and  hears 
Echoes  in  his  empty  hall, 

Sounding  on  the  morrow. 

The  Sun  peep'd  in  from  open  field. 
The  boy  began  to  leap  and  prance, 
Rode  upon  his  father's  lance. 

Beat  upon  his  father's  shield — 

"  O  hush,  my  joy,  my  sorrow." 


EXPERIMENTS.  393 


EXPERIMENTS. 

BOADICEA. 

While  about  the  shore  of  Mona  those  Neronian  regionaries 
Burnt  and  broke  the  grove  and  altar  of  the  Druid  and  Druidess, 
Far  in  the  East  Boadicea,  standing  loftily  charioted, 
Mad  and  maddening  all  that  heard  her  in  her  fierce  volubility, 
Girt  by  half  the  tribes  of  Britain,  near  the  colony  Camulodune, 
Yell'd  and  shriek'd  between  her  daughters  o'er  a  wild  confederacy. 

**  They  that  scorn  the  tribes  and  call  us  Britain's  barbarous  populaces, 
Did  they  hear  me,  would  they  listen,  did  they  pity  me  supplicating  ? 
Shall  I  heed  them  in  their  anguish  ?  shall  I  brook  to  be  supplicated  ? 
Hear  Icenian,  Catieuchlanian,  hear  Coritanian,  Trinobant  ! 
Must  their  ever-ravening  eagle's  beak  and  talon  annihilate  us  ? 
Tear  the  noble  heart  of  Britain,  leave  it  gorily  quivering  ? 
Bark  an  answer,  Britain's  raven  !  bark  and  blacken  innumerable, 
Blacken  round  the  Roman  carrion,  make  the  carcass  a  skeleton. 
Kite  and  kestrel,  wolf  and  wolfkin,  from  the  wilderness,  wallow  in  it, 
Till  the  face  of  Bel  be  brighten'd,  Taranis  be  propitiated. 
Lo  their  colony  half-defended  !  lo  their  colony,  Camulodune  ! 
There  the  horde  of  Roman  robbers  mock  at  a  barbarous  adversary. 
There  the  hive  of  Roman  liars  worship  a  gluttonous  emperor-idiot. 
Such  is  Rome,  and  this  her  deity  ;  hear  it.  Spirit  of  Cassiveladn  1 

"  Hear  it,  Gods  !  the  Gods  have  heard  it,  O  Icenian,  O  Coritanian  1 
Doubt  not  ye  the  Gods  have  answer'd,  Catieuchlanian,  Trinobant. 
These  have  told  us  all  their  anger  in  miraculous  utterances, 
Thunder,  a  flying  fire  in  heaven,  a  murmur  heard  aerially. 
Phantom  sound  of  blows  descending,  moan  of  an  enemy  massacred, 
Phantom  wail  of  women  and  children,  multitudinous  agonies. 
Bloodily  flow'd  the  Tamesa  rolling  phantom  bodies  of  horses  and  men 
Then  a  phantom  colony  smoulder'd  on  the  refluent  estuary  ; 
Lastly  yonder  yester-even,  suddenly  giddily  tottering — 
There  was  one  who  watch'd  and  told  me — down  their  statue  of  Victory  fell, 
Lo  their  precious  Roman  bantling,  lo  the  colony  Camulodune, 
Shall  we  teach  it  a  Roman  lesson  ?  shall  we  care  to  be  pitiful  ? 
Shall  we  deal  with  it  as  an  infant  ?  shall  we  dandle  it  amorously  ? 

"  Hear  Icenian,  Catieuchlanian,  hear  Coritanian,  Trinobant  \ 
While  I  roved  about  the  forest,  long  and  bitterly  meditating. 
There  I  heard  them  in  the  darkness,  at  the  mystical  ceremony. 
Loosely  robed  in  flying  raiment,  sang  the  terrible  prophetesses. 
*  Fear  not,  isle  of  blowing  woodland,  isle  of  silvery  parapets  ! 
Tho'  the  Roman  eagle  shadow  thee,  tho'  the  gathering  enemy  narrow  thee^ 
Thou  shalt  wax  and  he  shall  dwindle,  thou  shalt  be  the  mighty  one  yet  I 
Thine  the  libertj'.  thine  the  glory,  thine  the  deeds  to  be  celebrated, 


394  EXPERIMENTS. 


Thine  the  myriad-rolling  ocean,  light  and  shadow  illimitable, 

Thine  the  lands  of  lasting  summer,  many-blossoming  Paradises, 

Thine  the  North  and  thine  the  South  and  thine  the  battle-thunder  of  God.' 

So  they  chanted  :  how  shall  Britain  light  upon  auguries  happier  ? 

So  they  chanted  in  the  darkness,  and  there  cometh  a  victory  now. 

"  Hear  Icenian,  Catieuchlanian,  hear  Coritanian,  Trinobant ! 
Me  the  wife  of  rich  Prasutagus,  me  the  lover  of  liberty, 
Me  they  seized  and  me  they  tortured,  me  they  lash'd  and  humiliated, 
Me  the  sport  of  ribald  Veterans,  mine  of  ruffian  violators  ! 
See  they  sit,  they  hide  their  faces,  miserable  in  ignominy  I 
Wherefore  in  me  burns  an  anger,  not  by  blood  to  be  satiated. 
Lo  the  palaces  and  the  temple,  lo  the  colony  Camulodune  ! 
There  they  ruled,  and  thence  they  wasted  all  the  flourishing  territory, 
Thither  at  their  will  they  haled  the  yellow-ringleted  Britoness — 
Bloodily,  bloodily  fall  the  battle-axe,  unexhausted,  inexorable. 
Shout  icenian,  Catieuchlanian,  shout  Coritanian,  Trinobant, 
Till  the  victim  hear  within  and  yearn  to  hurry  precipitously 
Like  the  leaf  in  a  roaring  whirlwind,  like  the  smoke  in  a  hurricane  whirl'd. 
Lo  the  colony,  there  they  rioted  in  the  city  of  Cunobeline  ? 
There  they  drank  in  cups  of  emerald,  there  at  tables  of  ebony  lay. 
Rolling  on  their  purple  couches  in  their  tender  effeminacy. 
There  they  dwelt  and  there  they  rioted  ;  there — there — they  dwell  no  more. 
Burst  the  gates,  and  burn  the  palaces,  break  the  works  of  the  statuary, 
Take  the  hoary  Roman  head  and  shatter  it,  hold  it  abominable, 
Cut  the  Roman  boy  to  pieces  in  his  lust  and  voluptuousness. 
Lash  the  maiden  into  swooning,  me  they  lash'd  and  humiliated, 
Chop  the  breasts  from  off  the  mother,  dash  the  brains  of  the  little  one  out. 
Up  my  Britons,  on  my  chariot,  on  my  chargers,  trample  them  under  us." 

So  the  Queen  Boadicea,  standing  loftily  charioted, 
Brandishing  in  her  hand  a  dart  and  rolling  glances  lioness-like, 
Yelled  and  shrieked  between  her  daughters  in  her  fierce  volubility, 
Till  her  people  all  around  the  royal  chariot  agitated, 
Madly  dash'd  the  darts  together,  writhing  barbarous  lineaments, 
Made  the  noise  of  frosty  woodlands,  when  they  shiver  in  January, 
Roar'd  as  when  the  rolling  breakers  boom  and  blanch  on  the  precipices, 
Yell'd  as  when  the  winds  of  winter  tear  an  oak  on  a  promontory. 
So  the  silent  colony  hearing  her  tumultuous  adversaries 
Clash  the  darts  and  on  the  buckler  beat  with  rapid  unanimous  hand, 
Thought  on  all  her  evil  tyrannies,  all  her  pitiless  avarice, 
Till  she  felt  the  heart  withm  her  fall  and  flutter  tremulously, 
Then  her  pulses  at  the  clamoring  of  her  enemy  fainted  away. 
Out  of  evil  evil  flourishes,  out  of  tyranny  tyranny  buds. 
Ran  the  land  with  Roman  slaughter,  multitudinous  agonies. 
Perish'd  many  a  maid  and  matron,  many  a  valorous  legionary. 
Fell  the  colony,  city  and  citadel,  London,  Verulara,  Camulodune 


IN  QUANTITY. 

MILTON. 

Aicaicst 

O  MIGttTY-MOUTH'D  inventor  of  harmonieJ, 
O  skill'd  to  sing  of  Time  or  Eternity, 
God-gifted  organ-voice  of  England,  . 
Milton,  a  name  to  resound  for  ages 
Whose  Titan  angels,  Gabriel,  Abdiel, 
Starr'd  from  Jehovah's  gorgeous  armories, 
Tower,  as  the  deep-domed  empyrean 
Rings  to  the  roar  of  an  angel  onset — 
Me  rather  all  that  bowery  loneliness, 
The  brooks  of  Eden  mazily  murmuring, 
And  bloom  profuse  and  cedar  arches 
Charm,  as  a  wanderer  out  in  ocean, 
Where  some  refulgent  sunset  of  India 
Streams  o'er  a  rich  ambrosial  ocean  isle, 
And  crimson-hued  the  stately  palmwoods 
Whisper  in  odorQUS  heights  of  even. 


Hendecasyllabics, 

O  YOU  chorus  of  indolent  reviewers, 

Irresponsible,  indolent  reviewers, 

Look,  I  come  to  the  test,  a  tiny  poem 

All  composed  in  a  metre  of  Catullus, 

All  in  quantity,  careful  of  my  motion, 

Like  the  skater  on  ice  that  hardly  bears  him, 

Lest  I  fall  unawares  before  the  people. 

Waking  laughter  in  indolent  reviewers. 

Should  I  flounder  awhile  without  a  tumble 

Thro'  this  metrification  of  Catullus, 

They  should  speak  to  me  not  without  a  welcome. 

All  that  chorus  of  indolent  reviewers. 

Hard,  hard,  hard  is  it.  only  not  to  tumble, 

So  fantastical  is  the  dainty  metre. 

Wherefore  slight  me  not  wholly,  nor  believe  me 

Too  presumptuous,  indolent  reviewers. 

O  blatant  Magazines,  regard  me  rather — 

Since  I  blush  to  belaud  myself  a  moment 

As  some  rare  little  rose,  a  piece  of  inmost 

Horticultural  art,  or  half  coquette-like 

Maiden,  not  to  be  greeted  unbenignly. 


39^  EXPERIMENTS. 


SPECIMEN  OF  A  TRANSLATION  OF  THE  ILIAD  IN 
BLANK  VERSE. 

So  Hector  said,  and  sea-like  roar'd  his  host ; 
Then  loosed  their  sweating  horses  from  the  yoke 
And  each  beside  his  chariot  bound  his  own ; 
And  oxen  from  the  city,  and  goodly  sheep 
In  haste  they  drove,  and  honey-hearted  wine 
And  bread  from  out  the  houses  brought,  and  heap'd 
Their  firewood,  and  the  winds  from  off  the  plain 
Roll'd  the  rich  vapor  far  into  the  heaven. 
And  these  all  night  upon  the  *  bridge  of  war 
Sat  glorying  ; ,  many  a  fire  before  them  blazed : 
As  when  in  heaven  the  stars  about  the  moon 
Look  beautiful,  when  all  the  winds  are  laid, 
And  every  height  comes  out,  and  jutting  peak 
And  valley,  and  the  immeasurable  heavens 
Break  open  to  their  highest,  and  all  the  stars 
Shine,  and  the  Shepherd  gladdens  in  his  heart: 
So  many  a  fire  between  the  ships  and  stream 
Of  Xanthus  blazed  before  the  towers  of  Troy, 
A  thousand  on  the  plain  ;  and  close  by  each 
Sat  fifty  in  the  blaze  of  burning  fire  ; 
And  champing  golden  grain,  the  horses  stood 
Hard  by  their  chariots,  waiting  for  the  dawn.f 
_^ Iliad  VIII.  543-561. 

*0r,  ridge. 

t  Or  more  literally, — 

And  eating  hoary  grain  and  pulse  the  steeds 
Stood  by  their  cars,  waiting  the  throned  mora. 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 


397 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL 

AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 

Leodogran,  the  King  of  Cameliard, 
Had  one  fair  daughter,  and  none  other 

child ; 
And  she  was  fairest  of  all  flesh  on  earth, 
Guinevere,  and  in  her  his  one  delight. 

For  many  a  petty  king  ere  Arthur 

came 
Ruled  in  this  isle,  and  ever  waging  war 
Each  upon  other,  wasted  all  the  land; 
And  still  from  time  to  time  the  heathen 

host 
Swarm'd   overseas,  and  harried   what 

was  left. 
And  so  there  grew  great  tracts  of  wil- 
derness, 
Wherein  the  beast  was  ever  more  and 

more, 
But  man  was  less  and  less,  till  Arthur 

came. 
For  first  Aurelius  lived  and  fought  and 

died, 
And  after  him  King  Uther  fought  and 

died, 
But  either  fail'd  to  make  the  kingdom 

one. 
And  after  these  King  Arthur  for  a  space, 
And  thro'  the  puissance  of  his  Table 

Round, 
Drew  all  their  petty  princedoms  under 

him. 
Their  king  and  head,  and  made  a  realm, 

and  reign'd. 

And  thus  the  land  of  Cameliard  was 
waste. 
Thick  with   wet  woods,   and  many  a 
beast  therein, 


And  none  or  few  to  scare  or  chase  the 

beast ; 
So  that  wild  dog,  and  wolf  and  boar  and 

bear 
Came  night  and  day,  and  rooted  in  the 

fields. 
And  wallow'd  in  the  gardens  of  the  king. 
And  ever  and  anon  the  wolf  would  steal 
The  children  and  devour,  but  now  and 

then. 
Her  own  brood  lost  or  dead,  lent  her 

fierce  teat 
To  human  sucklings ;  and  the  children, 

housed 
In  her  foul  den,  there  at  their  meat 

would  growl, 
And  mock  their  foster-mother  on  four 

feet, 
Till,  straighten'd,  they  grew  up  to  wolf- 
like men. 
Worse   than   the   wolves.     And   King 

Leodogran 
Groan'd  for  the  Roman   legions  here 

again,  [king. 

And   Caesar's  eagle:  then  his  brother 
Rience,  assail'd  him :  last    a   heathen 

horde, 
Reddening  the  sun  with  smoke  and  earth 

with  blood, 
And  on  the  spike  that  split  the  mother's 

heart 
Spitting  the  child,  brake  on  him,  till, 

amazed. 
He  knew  not  whither  he  should  turn 

for  aid. 

But — for  he  heard  of  Arthur  newly 
crown'd, 
Tho'  not  without  an  uproar  made  by 
those 


39S 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR, 


Who  cried,  "  He  is  not  Uther's  son  " — 

the  king 
Sent  to  him,  saying,  "  Arise,  and  help 

us  thou  I 
For  here  between  the  man  and  beast  we 

die." 

And  Arthur  yet  had  done  no  deed  of 

arms. 
But   heard  the    call,  and    came:  and 

Guinevere 
Stood  by  the  castle  walls  to  watch  him 

pass ; 
But  since  he  neither  wore  on  helm  or 

shield 
'The  golden  symbol  of  his  kinglihood, 
But   rode  a  simple  knight  among  his 

knights. 
And  many  of  these  in  richer  arms  than 

he, 
She  saw  him  not,  or  mark'd  not,  if  she 

saw, 
One  among  many,  tho'  his  face  was  bare. 
But  Arthur,  looking  downward  as  he 

past. 
Felt  the  light  of  her  eyes  into  his  life 
Smite  on  the  sudden,  yet  rode  on,  and 

pitch'd 
His  tents  beside  the  forest.     And  he 

drave 
The  heathen,  and  he  slew  the  beast,  and 

fell'd 
The  forest,  and  let  in  the  sun,  and  made 
Broad  pathways  for  the  hunter  and  the 

knight ; 
And  so  return'd. 

For  while  he  linger'd  there, 
A  doubt  that  ever  smoulder'd   in  the 

hearts 
Of  those  great  Lords  and  Barons  of  his 

realm 
Flash'd  forth  and  into  war  :  for  most  of 

these 
Made  head  against  him,  crying,  "  Who 

is  he 
That   he    should   rule    us**  who    hath 

proven  him 
King  Uther's  son  >  for  lo!  we  look  at 

him, 
And  find  nor  face  nor  be^'^ing,  limbs 

nor  voice. 


Are  like  to  those  of  Uther  whom  we 

knew. 
This  is  the  son  of  Gorlois,  not  the  king; 
This  is  the  son  of  Anton,  not  the  king.'" 

And  Arthur,  passing  thence  to  battle, 

felt 
Travail,  and  throes  and  agonies  of  the 

life. 
Desiring  to  be  join'd  with  Guinevere  ; 
And  thinking  as  he  rode,  *'  Her  father 

said 
That  there  between  the  man  and  beast 

they  die. 
Shall   I  not  lift  her  from  this  land   of 

beasts 
Up  to  my  throne,  and  side  by  side  with 

me.!* 
What  happiness  to  reign  a  lonely  king, 
Vext — O  ye  stars  that  shudder  over  me, 

0  earth  that  soundest  hollow  under  me, 
Vext  with  waste  dreams  "i  for  saving  I 

be  join'd 
To  her  that  is  fairest  under  heaven, 

1  seem  as  nothing  in  the  mighty  world, 
And  cannot  will  my  will,  nor  work  my 

work  [reahn 

Wholly,  nor  make  myself  in  mine  own 
Victor  and  lord.     But  were  I  join'd 

with  her. 
Then  might  we  live  together  as  one  life, 
And  reigning  with  one  will   in  every- 
thing 
Have  power  on  this  dark  land  to  lighten 

it, 
And  power  on  this  dead  world  to  make 
it  live." 

And  Arthur  from  the  field  of  battle 

sent 
Ulfius,  and  Brastias,  and  Bedivere, 
His  new-made  knights,  to  King  Leodo= 

gran. 
Saying,  "  If  I  in  aught  have  served  thee 

well, 
Give  me   thy  daughter    Guinevere  to 

wife." 

Whom  when  he  heard,  Leodogran  in 
heart 
Debating—"  How  should  I  that  am  a 
king, 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 


399 


However  much  he  holp  me  at  my  need, 
Give  my  one  daughter  saving  to  a  king, 
And  a  king's  son  " — lifted  his  voice,  and 

call'd 
A  hoary  man,  his  chamberlain,  to  whom 
He  trusted  all  things,  and  of  him   re- 
quired 
His  counsel :  "  Knowest  thou  aught  of 
Arthur's  birth  ? " 

Then  spake  the  hoary  chamberlain 

and  said, 
"  Sir  king,  there  be  but  two  old  men 

that  know  : 
And  each  is  twice  as  old  as  I ;  and  one 
Is  Merlin,  the  wise  man  that  ever  served 
King  Uther  thro'  his  magic  art:  and 

one 
Is   Merlin's  master   (so  they  call  him) 

Bleys, 
Who  taught  him  magic ;  but  the  scholar 

ran 
Before   the   master,   and  so    far,  that 

Bleys 
Laid  magic  by,  and  sat  him  down,  and 

wrote 
All  things  and  whatsoever  Merlin  did 
In  one  great  annal-book,  where  after- 
years 
Will  learn  the  secret  of  our  Arthur's 

birth." 

To  whom  the  King  Leodogran  re- 
plied, 

"  O  friend,  had  I  been  holpen  half  as 
well  _ 

By  this  King  Arthur  as  by  thee  to-day, 

Then  beast  and  man  had  had  their 
share  of  me : 

But  summon  here  before  us  yet  once 
more 

Ulfius,  and  Brastias,  and  Bedivere." 

Then,  when  they  came  before  him, 

the  king  said, 
"I  have  seen  the   cuckoo   chased  by 

lesser  fowl. 
And  reason  in  the  chase :  but  wherefore 

now 
Do  these  your  lords  stir  up  the  heat  of 

war, 
Some  calling  Arthur  born  of  Gorlois, 


Others  of  Anton  ?  Tell  me,  ye  your- 
selves, 

Hold  ye  this  Arthur  for  King  Uther'?. 
son?" 

And   Ulfius  and  Brastias  answer'd, 

*'Ay. 
Then  Bedivere,  the  first  of  all  his  knights 
Knighted   by  Arthur  at  his  crowning, 

spake — 
For  bold  in  heart  and  act  and  word  was 

he, 
Whenever  slander  breathed  against  the 

king— 

"  Sir,  there  be  many  rumors   on  this 

head ; 
For  there  be  those  who   hate   him   in 

their  hearts. 
Call  him  baseborn,  and  since  his  ways 

are  sweet, 
And   theirs   are  bestial,  hold  him  less 

than  man, 
And  there  be  some  who  deem  him  more 

than  man. 
And  dream  he  dropt  from  heaven ;  but 

my  belief 
In  all  this  matter — so  ye  care  to  learn — 
Sir,  for  ye  know  that  in  King  Uther's 

time 
The  prince  and  warrior  Gorlois,  he  that 

held 
Tintagel  castle  by  the  Cornish  sea, 
Was    wedded   with   a  winsome   wife, 

Ygerne  : 
And  daughters  had  she  borne   him, — 

one  whereof 
Lot's  wife,  the  Queen  of  Orkney,  Belli- 

cent. 
Hath  ever  like  a  loyal  sister  cleaved 
To  Arthur, — but   a  son  she   had  not 

borne. 
And  Uther  cast  upon  her  eyes  of  love  : 
But  she,  a  stainless  wife  to  Gorlois, 
So  loathed  the  bright  dishonor  of  his 

love. 
That  Gorlois  and  King  Uther  went  to 

war : 
And  overthrown  was  Gorlois  and  slain. 
Then  Uther  in  his  wrath  and^heat  be- 
sieged 
Ygerne  within  Tintagel,  where  her  men, 


400 


THE  COMING  OF  AR  THUR. 


Seeing  the  mighty  swarm  about  their 

walls, 
Left  her  and  fled,  and  Uther  enter'd  in, 
And  there  was  none  to  call  to  but  him- 
self. 
So,  compass'd  by  the  power  of  the  king. 
Enforced  she  was  to  wed  him   in  her 

tears, 
And  with  a  shameful  swiftness  :  after- 
ward, 
Not  many  moons.  King  Uther  died  him- 
self 
Moaning  and  wailing  for  an  heir  to  rule 
After  him,  lest  the  realm  should  go  to 

wrack. 
And  that  same  night,  the  night  of  the 

new  year, 
By  reason  of  the  bitterness  and  grief 
That  vext  his  mother,  all  before  his 

time 
Was  Arthur  born,  and  all  as  soon  as 

born 
Deliver'd  at  a  secret  postern-gate 
To  Merlin,  to  be  holden  far  apart 
Until  his  hour  should  come ;  because 

the  lords 
Of  that  fierce  day  were  as  the  lords  of 

this, 
Wild  beasts,   and  surely  would  have 

torn  the  child 
Piecemeal  among  them,had  they  known; 

for  each 
But  sought  to  rule  for  his  own  self  and 

hand. 
And  many  hated  Uther  for  the  sake 
Of  Gorloi's.     Wherefore  Merlin  took 

the  child, 
And  gave  him  to  Sir  Anton,  an  old 

knight 
And  ancient  friend  of  Uther ;  and  his 

wife 
Nursed  the  young  prince,  and  rear'd 

him  with  her  own ; 
And  no  man  knew.     And  ever  since 

the  lords 
Have  foughten  like  wild  beasts  among 

themselves, 
So  that  the  realm  has  gone  to  wrack ; 

but  now. 
This  ye^,  when  Merlin  (for  his  hour 

had  come) 


Brought  Arthur  forth,  and  set  him  iti 

the  hall. 
Proclaiming,    *  Here  is   Uther's   heir, 

your  king,' 
A  hundred  voices  cried,  *Away  with 

him ! 
No  king  of  ours !  a  son  of  Gorloi's  he. 
Or  else  the  child  of  Anton,  and  no 

king. 
Or  else  baseborn,'    Yet  Merlin  thro' 

his  craft. 
And  while  the  people  clamor'd  for  a 

king, 
Had  Arthur  crown'd;   but  after,  the 

great  lords 
Banded,   and  so  brake    out  in  open 

war." 

Then  while  the  king  debated  with 

himself 
If  Arthur  were  the  child  of  shameful- 

ness. 
Or    born    the    son   of    Gorloi's,   after 

death. 
Or  Uther's  son,  and  born  before  his 

time, 
Or  whether  there  were  truth  in  any- 
thing 
Said   by   these   three,   there   came   to 

Cameliard, 
With  Gawain  and  young  Modred,  her 

two  sons, 
Lot's  wife,  the  Queen  of  Orkney,  Bel- 

licent ; 
Whom  as  he  could,  not  as  he  would, 

the  king 
Made  feast  for,  saying,  as  they  sat  at 

meat, 

"A  doubtful  throne  is  ice  on  sum- 
mer seas — 

Ye  come  from  Arthur's  court  :  think 
ye  this  king — 

So  few  his  knights,  however  brave  they 
be- 

Hath  body  enow  to  beat  his  foemen 
down  ? " 

"O  king,"  she  cried,  "and  I  will  tell 
thee :  few. 
Few,  but  all  brave,  all  of  one  mind 
with  him : 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 


401 


For  I  was  near  him  when  the  savage 

yells 
Of  Uther's  peerage  died,  and  Arthur 

sat 
Crown'd  on  the  dais,  and  his  warriors 

cried, 
« Be  thou  the  king,  and  we  will  work 

thy  will 
Who  love  thee.'    Then  the  king  in 

low,  deep  tones, 
And  simple  words  of  great  authority. 
Bound  them  by  so  strait  vows  to  his 

own  self. 
That  when  they  rose,  knighted  from 

kneeling,  some 
Were  pale  as  at  the  passing  of  a  ghost. 
Some  fiush'd,  and  others  dazed,  as  one 

who  wakes 
Half-blinded  at  the  coming  of  a  light. 

"  But  when  he  spake  and  cheer'd  his 

Table  Round 
With    large    divine    and   comfortable 

words 
Bevond  my  tongue  to  tell  thee — I  be- 

'  held 
From  eye  to  eye  thro'  all  their  Order 

flash 
A  momentary  likeness  of  the  king  : 
And  ere  it  left  their  faces,  thro'  the 

cross 
And  those  around  it  and  the  Crucified, 
Down  from  the  casement,  over  Arthur, 

smote 
Flame-color,  vert  and  azure,  in  three 

rays, 
One  falling   upon   each  of  three   fair 

queens, 
Who  stood  in  silence  near  his  throne, 

the  friends 
Of  Arthur,  gazing  on  him,  tall,  with 

bright 
Sweet  faces,  who  will  help  him  at  his 

need. 


"And   there   I   saw    mage    Merlin. 

whose  vast  wit 
And  hundred  winters  are  but  as  the 

hands 
Of  loyal  vassals  toiling  for  their  liege. 


"  And  near  him  stood  the  Lady  of 

the  Lake, 
Who  knows  a  subtler  magic  than  his 

own — 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful. 
She   gave   the    king   his   huge    cross 

hilted  sword, 
Whereby  to  drive  the  heathen  out :  a 

mist  [face 

Of  incense  curl'd  about  her,  and   her 
Wellnigh  was  hidden   in   the  minster 

gloom ; 
But  there  was  heard  among  the  holy 

hymns  [dwells 

A   voice    as   of   the    waters,   for    she 
Down    in   a   deep,    calm,   whatsoever 

storms 
May  shake  the  world,  and  wh^n  the 

surface  rolls. 
Hath  power  to  walk  the  waters  .'ike 

our  Lord. 

"There  likewise  I  beheld  Excalibur 
Before  him  at  his  crowning  borne,  the 

sword 
That  rose  from  out  the  bosom  of  th^ 

lake. 
And  Arthur  row'd  across  and  took  it- 
rich 
With  jewels,  elfin  Urim,  on  the  hilt, 
Bewildering  heart  and  eye — the  blade 

so  bright 
That  men  are  blinded  by  it — on  one 

side, 
Graven  in  the  oldest  tongue  of  all  this 

world, 
*Take  me,'  but  turn  the  blade  and  you 

shall  see. 
And  written  in  the  speech  ye  speak 

yourself, 
'  Cast  me  away  I '  and  sad  was  Arthur's 

face 
Taking  it,  but  old  Merlin   counsell'd 

him, 
'Take   thou   and  strike!   the  time  to 

cast  away 
Is  yet  far-off.'     So  this  great  brand  thd 

king 
Took,  and  by  this  will  beat  his  foemen 

down." 


402 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 


Thereat    Leodogran    rejoiced,    but 

thought 
To  sift  his  doubtings  to  the  last,  and 

ask'd, 
Fixing  full   eyes  of  question   on   her 

face, 
'*  The  swallow  and  the  swift  are  near 

akin, 
But  thou  art  closer  to  this  noble  prince, 
Being  his  own  dear  sister ; "  and  she 

said, 
"  Daughter  of  Gorloi's  and  Ygerne  am 

*•  And  therefore  Arthur's  sister,"  asked 

the  King. 
She  answer'd,  "These  be  secret  things," 

and  sign'd 
To  those  two  sons  to  pass  and  let  them 

be. 
And  Gawain  went  and  breaking  into 

song 
Sprang  out,  and  follow'd  by  his  flying 

hair,  [saw : 

Ran  like  a  colt,  and   leapt  at   all   he 
But   Modred  laid   his  ear   beside  the 

doors. 
And  there  half  heard ;  the  same  that 

afterward 
Struck  for   the   throne,    and   striking 

found  his  doom. 

And  then  the  Queen  made  answer, 

'*  What  know  1 1 
For  dark  my  mother  was  in  eyes  and 

hair. 
And  dark  in  hair  and  eyes  am  I ;  and 

dark 
Was  Gorlois,  yea  and  dark  was  Uther 

too, 
Well  nigh  to  blackness  j  but  this  king 

is  fair 
Beyond  the  race  of  Britons    and  of 

men. 
Moreover  always  in  my  mind  I  hear 
A  cry  from  out  the  dawning  of  my  life, 
A  mother   weeping,    and   I   hear   her 

say, 
*0  that  ye  had  some  brother,  pretty 

one, 
To  guard  thee  on  the  rough  ways  of 

the  world.'" 


"Ay,"  said  the  King,  "and  hear  ye 
such  a  cry ,-' 
But  when  did  Arthur  chance  upon  thee 
first  t " 

"  Oh  king !  "  she  cried,  "  and  I  will 

tell  thee  true : 
He   found   me   first  when  yet  a  little 

maid  : 
Beaten  I  had  been  for  a  little  fault 
Whereof  I  was  not  guilty;  and  out  I 

ran 
And  flung  myself  down  on  a  bank  o£ 

heath. 
And   hated    this   fair   world    and    all 

therein. 
And  wept,  and  wish'd  that  I  were  dead , 

and  he — 
I   know   not   whether   of    himself    he 

came, 
Or  brought  by  Merlin,  who,  they  say, 

can  walk 
Unseen   at    pleasure — he  was   at   my 

side, 
And  spake  sweet  words,  and  comforted 

my  heart. 
And  dried  my  tears,  being  a  child  with 

me. 
And  many  a  time  he  came,  and  ever- 
more 
As  I  grew  greater  grew  with  me ;  and 

■    sad 
At  times  he  seem'd,  and  sad  with  him 

was  I, 
Stern  too  at  times,  and  then  I  loved 

him  not, 
But  sweet  again,  and  then  I  loved  him 

well. 
And   now  of  late  I  see  him  less  and 

less, 
But  those  first  days  had  golden  hours 

for  me. 
For  then  I  surely  thought  he  would  be 

king. 

"But  let  me  tell  thee  now  another 

tale: 
For  Bleys,  our  Merlin's  master,  as  they 

say, 
Died  but  of  late,  and  sent  his  cry  to 

me. 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 


403 


To  hear  him  speak  before  he  left  his 

life. 
Shrunk  like  a  fairy  changeling  lay  the 

mage, 
And  when  I  enter'd  told  me  that  him- 
self 
And   Merlin  ever  served    about    the 

king,  [night 

Uther,   before   he   died,    and    on    the 
When  Uther  in  Tintagel  past  away 
Moaning  and  wailing  for  an  heir,  the 

two 
Left  the  still  king,  and  passing  forth 

to  breathe. 
Then  from  the  castle  gateway  by  the 

chasn 
Descending  thro'  the  dismal  night — a 

night 
In  which  the  bomids  of  heaven  and 

earth  were  lost — 
Beheld,  so  high  upon  the  dreary  deeps 
It  seem'd  in  heav'n,  a  ship,  the  shape 

thereof 
A  dragon  wing'd,  and  all  from  stem  to 

stern 
Bright  with  a  shining  people  on  the 

decks. 
And  gone  as  soon  as  seen :  and  then 

the  two 
Dropt  to   the   cove,  and  watch'd  the 

great  sea  fall, 
Wave  after  wave,  each  mightier  than 

the  last, 
Till  last,  a  ninth  one,  gathering  half 

the  deep 
And  full   of  voices,  slowly  rose  and 

plunged 
Roaring,  and  all  the  waves  was  in  a 

flame : 
And  down  the  wave  and  in  the  flame 

was  borne 
A  naked  babe,  and  rode  to  Merlin's 

feet, 
Who  stoopt  and  caught  the  babe,  and 

cried,  *  The  King ! 
Here  is  an  heir  for  Uther ! '  and  the 

fringe 
Of  that  great  breaker,  sweeping  up  the 

strand, 
JLash'd  at  the  wizard  as  he  spake  the 

word, 


And  all  at  once  all  round  him  rose   in 

fire. 
So  that  the  child  and  he  were  clothed 

in  fire. 
And  presently  thereafter  follow'd  calm, 
Free  sky  and  stars  :  'And  this  same 

child,'  he  said, 
*  Is  he  who  reigns ;  nor  could  I  part  in 

peace 
Till  this  were  told.'     And  saying  this 

the  seer 
Went  thro'  the  strait  and  dreadful  pass 

of  death. 
Not  ever  to  be  question'd  any  more 
Save  on  the  further  side ;  but  when  1 

met 
Merlin,  and  ask'd  him  if  these  things 

were  truth — 
The    shining   dragon   and  the   naked 

child 
Descending  in  the  glory  of  the  seas — 
He  laugh'd  as  is  his  wont,  and  answer'd 

me 
In  riddling  triplets  of  old  time,  and 

said: 

"  *  Rain,  rain,  and  sun  !  a  rainbow  in 

the  sky  ! 
A  young  man  will  be  wiser  by  and  by ; 
An  old  man's  wit  may  wander  ere  he 

die. 
Rain,  rain,  and  sun  !  a  rainbow  on 

the  lea ! 
And  truth  is  this  to  me,  and  that  to 

thee  ; 
And    truth   or   clothed   or  naked  let 

it  be. 
Rain,  sun,  and  rain !   and  the   free 

blossom  blows : 
Sun,  rain,  and  sun !  and  where  is  he 

who  knows  ? 
From  the  great  deep  to  the  great  deep 

he  goes.' 

"So   Merlin   riddling    anger'd   mc; 

but  thou 
Fear  not  to  give  this  king  thine  only 

child, 
Guinevere  :  so  great  bards  of  him  will 

sing 
Hereafter;  and  dark  sayings  from  of 

old 


404 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 


Ranging  and  ringing  thro'  the  minds 

of  men, 
And  echo'd  by  old  folk  beside  their 

fires 
For  comfort  after  their  wage-work  is 

done, 
Speak  of  the  king ;  and  Merlin  in  our 

time 
Hath  spoken  also,   not  in  jest,  and 

sworn 
Tho'  men  may  wound  him  that  he  will 

not  die, 
But  pass,  again  to  come ;  and  then  or 

now 
Utterly  smite  the  heathen  underfoot, 
Till   these    and  all  men  hail  him  for 

their  king.* 

She  spake  and  King  Leodogran  re- 
joiced. 
But  musing  "  Shall  I  answer  yea  or 

nay?" 
Doubted  and    drowsed,   nodded    and 

slept,  and  saw, 
Dreaming,  a  slope  of  land  that  ever 

grew. 
Field  after  field,  up  to  a   height,  the 

peak  [king. 

Haze-hidden,  and  thereon  a  phantom 
Now  looming,  and  now  lost;  and  on 

the  slope 
The  sword  rose,  the  hind  fell,  the  herd 

was  driven. 
Fire  glimpsed  ;  and  all  the  land  from 

roof  and  rick, 
In   drifts   of   smoke   before   a   rolling 

wind, 
Stream'd   to    the   peak,   and   mingled 

with  the  haze 
And  made  it  thicker;  while  the  phan- 
tom king 
Sent  out  at  times  a  voice ;  and  here  or 

there 
Stood   one  who    pointed  toward  the 

voice,  the  rest 
Slew  on  and  burnt,  crying,  *'  No  king 

of  ours, 
No    son    of  Uther,  and    no    king   of 

ours ; " 
Till    with    a    wink    his     dream    was 

changed,  the  haze 


Descended,  and  the  solid  earth  became 
As  nothing,  and  the  king  stood  out  in 

heaven, 
Crown'd.    And  Leodogran  awoke,  and 

sent 
Ulfius,  and  Brastias,  and  Bedivere, 
Back  to  the  court  of  Arthur  answering 

yea. 

Then   Arthur    charged   his   warrior 

whom  he  loved 
And   honor'd   most.    Sir   Lancelot,  to 

ride  forth 
And  bring  the  Queen ; — and  watch'd 

him  from  the  gates : 
And   Lancelot  past   away  among  the 

flowers, 
(For   then   was   latter   April)  and   re- 

turn'd 
Among  the  flowers,  in  May,  with   Gui- 
nevere. 
To  whom  arrived,  by  Dubric  the  high 

saint. 
Chief  of  the   church   in   Britain,  and 

before 
The  stateliest  of  her  altar-shrines,  the 

king 
That  morn  was  married,  while  in  stain- 
less white, 
The  fair  beginners  of  a  nobler  time. 
And  glorying  in  their  vows  and  him, 

his  knights 
Stood  round  him,  and  rejoicing  in  his 

joy. 
And  holy  Dubric  spread  his  hands  and 

spake, 
"  Reign   ye,   and   live    and   love,   and 

make  the  world 
Other,  and  may  thy  Queen  be  one  with 

thee. 
And  all  this  Order  of  thy  Table  Round 
Fulfil  the  boundless  purpose  of  their 

king." 

Then  at  the  marriage  feast  came  in 

from  Rome, 
The    slowly-fading    mistress    of    the 

world, 
Great  lords,  who  claim'd  the  tribute 

as  of  yore. 
But  Arthur  spake,  "  Behold,  for  these 

have  sworn 


THE  HOL  V  GRAIL. 


405 


To  fight  my  wars,  and  worship  me 

their  king; 
The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place 

to  new ; 
And  we  that  fight  for  our  fair  father 

Christ, 
Seeing  that  ye  be  grown  too  weak  and 

old 
To  drive  the  heathen  from  your  Roman 

wall. 
No  tribute   will   we   pay:"  so   those 

great  lords 
Drew  back  in  wrath,  and  Arthur  strove 

with  Rome 

And  Arthur  and  his  knighthood  for 

a  space 
Were    all    one    will,  and    thro'    that 

strength  the  king 
Drew  in  the  petty  princedoms  under 

him, 
Fought,  and  in  twelve  great  battles 

overcame 
The  heathen  hordes,  and  made  a  realm 

and  reign'd. 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 

From  noiseful    arms,  and  acts  of 

prowess  done 
In  tournament  or  tilt,  Sir  Percivale, 
Whom   Arthur    and    his    knighthood 

call'd  The  Pure, 
Had    pass'd    into    the    silent    life  of 

prayer, 
Praise,  fast,  and  alms ;  and  leaving  for 

the  cowl 
The  helmet  in  an  abbey  far  away 
From  Camelot,  there,  and  not  long 

after,  died. 

And  one,  a  fellow-monk  among  the 
rest, 

Ambrosius,  loved  him  much  beyond 
the  rest, 

And  honor'd  him,  and  wrought  into  his 
heart 

A  way  by  love  that  wri!:cn'd  love  with- 
in. 


To  answer  that  which  came :  and  as 
they  sat 

Beneath  a  world-old  yew-tree,  darken* 
ing  half 

The  cloisters,  on  a  gustful  April  morn 

That  puff'd  the  swaying  branches  into 
smoke 

Above  them,  ere  the  summer  when  he 
died. 

The  monk  Ambrosius  question'd  Per- 
civale : 

*'0  brother,  I  have  seen  this  yew- 
tree  smoke, 

Spring  after  spring,  for  half  a  hundred 
years : 

For  never  have  I  known  the  world 
without. 

Nor  ever  stray'd  beyond  the  pale :  but 
thee, 

When  first  thou  camest — such  a  cour- 
tesy 

Spake  thro'  the  limbs  and  in  the  voice 
— I  knew 

For  one  of  those  who  eat  in  Arthur's 
hall; 

For  good  ye  are  and  bad,  and  like  to 
coins. 

Some  true,  some  light,  but  everv  one 
of  you 

Stamp'd  with  the  image  of  the  King; 
and  now 

Tell  me,  what  drove  thee  from  the 
Table  Round, 

My  brothe  ?  was  it  earthly  passion 
crost  t 

"Nay,"  said  the  knight;  "for  no 
such  passion  mine. 

But  the  sweet  vision  of  the  Holy  Grail 

Drove  me  from  all  vainglories,  rival- 
ries, 

And  earthly  heats  that  spring  and 
sparkle  out 

Among  us  in  the  jousts,  while  women 
watch 

Who  wins,  who  falls;  and  waste  the 
spiritual  strength 

Within  us,  better  offer'd  up  t« 
Heaven." 


4o6 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


To  whom   the   monk:  "The    Holy 

Grail !— I  trust 
We  are  green  in  Heaven's  eyes;  but 

here  too  much 
We  moulder — as  to  things  without  I 

mean — 
Yet  one  of  your  own  knights,  a  guest 

of  ours, 
Told  us  of  this  in  our  refectory, 
But  spake  with  such  a  sadness  and  so 

low 
We  heard  not  half  of  what  he  said. 

What  is  it  ? 
The  phantom  of  a  cup  that  comes  and 

goes  ? " 

"  Nay,  monk  !  what  phantom  ? "  an- 

swer'd  Percivale, 
"  The  cup,  the  cup  itself,  from  which 

our  Lord 
Drank  at  the  last  sad  supper  with  his 

own. 
This,     from     the     blessed     land     of 

Aromat — 
After  the  day  of  darkness,  when  the 

dead 
Went    wandering     o'er     Moriah — the 

good  saint, 
Arimathaean        Joseph,        journeying 

brought 
To    Glastonbury,    where    the    winter 

thorn 
Blossoms  at  Christmas,  mindful  of  our 

Lord. 
And  there   awhile  it  bode;    and  if  a 

man 
Could  touch  or  see  it,  he  was  heal'd 

at  once, 
By  faith,  of  all  his  ills.     But  then  the 

times 
Grew  to  such  evil  that  the  holy  cup 
Was  caught  away  to  Heaven,  and  dis- 

appear'd." 

To  whom  the  monk:  "From  our 
old  books  I  know 

That  Joseph  came  of  old  to  Glaston- 
bury, 

And  there  the  heathen  Prince,  Arvi- 
ragus, 

Gave  him  an  isle  of  marsh  whereon  to 
build  : 


And  there  he  built  with  wattles  from 

the  marsh 
A  little  lonely  church  in  days  of  yore, 
For  so  they  say,  these  books  of  ours, 

but  seem 
Mute  of  this  miracle,  far  as   I   have 

read. 
But  who  first  saw  the  holy  thing  to« 

day  ? " 

"  A  woman,"  answer'd  Percivale,     a 

nun, 
And  one  no  further  off  in  blood  from 

me 
Than  sister  ;  and  if  ever  holy  maid 
With    knees   of    adoration   wore   the 

stone, 
A    holy    maid;     tho'    never    maiden 

glow'd, 
But  that  was  in  her  earlier  maidenhood, 
With  such  a  fervent  flame  of  human 

love. 
Which  being  rudely  blunted,  glanced 

and  shot 
Only   to   holy  things:  to   prayer   and 

praise 
She   gave   herself,  to   fast   and   alms. 

And  yet, 
Nun  as  she  was,  the  scandal  of  the 

Court, 
Sin    against   Arthur    and    the    Table 

Round, 
And  the  strange  sound  of  an  adulter- 
ous race. 
Across  the  iron  gratmg  of  her  cell 
Beat,  and  she  pray'd  and  fasted  all  the 

more. 

"And  he  to  whom  she  told  her  sins, 

or  what 
Her  all  but  utter  whiteness  held  for 

sm, 
A  man  wellnigh  a  hundred  winters  old, 
Spake    often   with   her   of    the    Holy 

Grail, 
A  legend  handed  down  thro'  five  or 

six, 
And  each  of  these  a  hundred  winteri 

old. 
From    our    Lord's   time.     And   when 

King  Arthur  made 


THE  HOL  V  GRAIL. 


407 


His  Table  Round,  and  all  men's  hearts 

became 
Clean    for   a    season,   surely   he    had 

thought 
That  now  the  Holy  Grail  would  come 

again ; 
But  sin  broke  out.     Ah,  Christ,  that  it 

would  come. 
And  heal  the  world  of  all  their  wicked- 
ness! 
*0  Father!'  asked  the  maiden,  'might 

it  come 
To  me  by  prayer  and  fasting  ? '  '  Nay,' 

said  he, 
•  I  know  not,  for  thy  heart  is  pure  as 

snow.' 
And  so  she  pray'd  and  ^sted,  till  the 

sun 
Shone,  and  the  wind  blew,  thro'  her, 

and  I  thought 
She  might  have  risen  and  floated  when 

I  saw  her. 

"  For  on  a  day  she  sent  to  speak 
with  me. 

And  when  she  came  to  speak,  behold 
her  eyes 

Beyond  my  knowing  of  them,  beautiful, 

Beyond  all  knowing  of  them,  wonder- 
ful, 

Beautiful  in  the  light  of  holiness. 

And  '  O  my  brother,  Percivale,'  she 
said,  [Grail : 

'  Sweet  brother,  I  have  seen  the  Holy 

For,  waked  at  dead  of  night,  I  heard  a 
sound 

A.S  of  a  silver  horn  from  o'er  the  hills 

Blown,  and  I  thought,  "  It  is  not 
Arthur's  use 

To  hunt  by  moonlight;"  and  the  slen- 
der sound 

As  from  a  distance  beyond  distance 
grew 

Coming  upon  me — O  never  harp  nor 
horn. 

Nor  aught  we  blow  with  breath,  or 
touch  with  hand. 

Was  like  that  music  as  it  came  ;  and 
then 

Stream'd  thro'  my  cell  a  cold  and  sil- 
ver beam, 


And  down   the   long   beam   stole  the 

Holy  Grail, 
Rose-red  with  beatings  in  it,  as  if  alive. 
Till  all  the  white  walls  of  my  cell  were 

dyed 
With  rosy  colors  leaping  on  the  wall; 
And   then   the   music  faded,  and  the 

Grail 
Pass'd,   and    the  beam    decay'd,   and 

from  the  walls 
The  rosy  quiverings  died  into  the  night. 
So  now  the  Holy  Thing  is  here  again 
Among  us,  brother,  fast  thou  too  and 

pray. 
And  tell  thy  brother  knights  to  fast 

and  pray,  [seen 

That  so  perchance  the  vision  may  be 
By  thee  and  those,  and  all  the  world 

be  heal'd.' 

"  Then  leaving  the  pale  nun,  I  spake 

of  this 
To  all   men;   and  myself  fasted  and 

pray'd 
Always,  and  many  among  us  many  a 

week  [most^ 

Fasted  and  pray'd  even  to  the  utter- 
Expectant  of  the  wonder  that  would 

be. 

"  And  one  there  was  among  us,  ever 

moved 
Among  us  in  white  armor,  Galahad. 
*  God    make  thee  good  as    thou  art 

beautiful,' 
Said    Arthur,  when    he  dubb'd    him 

knight;  and  none. 
In  so  young  youth,  was  ever  made  a 

knight 
Till  Galahad ;  and  this  Galahad,  when 

he  heard 
My    sister's     vision,    fiU'd    me     with 

amaze ; 
His  eyes  became  so  like  her  own,  they 

seem'd 
Hers,  and  himself  her  brother  more 

than  I. 

"  Sister  or  brother  none  had  he ;  but 
some 
Call'd  him  a  son  of  Lancelot,  and  some 
said 


4oS 


THE  HOL I    GRATL. 


Begotten  by  enchantment — chatterers 

they, 
Like  birds  of  passage  piping  up  and 

down, 
That    gape    for    flies — we    know   not 

whence  they  come  ; 
For  when  was  Lancelot  wanderingly 

lewd 


"  But  she,  the   wan  sweet   maiden 

shore  away 
Clean  from  her  forehead  all  that  wealth 

of  hair 
Which  made  a  silken  mat-work  for  her 

feet; 
And  out  of  this  she  plaited  broad  and 

long 
A  strong  sword-belt,   and  wove  with 

silver  thread 
And   crimson   in    the   belt   a    strange 

device, 
A  crimson  grail  within  a  silver  beam; 
And  saw   the   bright   boy-knight,  and 

bound  it  on  him. 
Saying,  '  My  knight,  my  love,  my  knight 

of  heaven, 
O  thou,  my  love,  whose  love  is  one  with 

mine, 
I,  maiden,  round  thee,   maiden,   bind 

my  belt. 
Go   forth,   for   thou   shalt  see  what  I 

have  seen. 
And  break  thro'  all,  till  one  will  crown 

thee  king 
Far  in  the  spiritual   city  :'  and  as  she 

spake 
She   sent  the  deathless  passion  in  her 

eyes 
Thro'  him,  and  made  him  hers,  and  laid 

her  mind 
On   him,   and   he   believed  in  her  be- 
lief. 

"  Then  came  a  year  of  miracle  .'  O 

brother, 
In  our  great  hall  there  stood  a  vacant 

chair, 
Fashion'd  by  Merlin  ere  he  past  away. 
And  carven  with  strange  figures ;  and 

in  and  out 


Of  letters  in  a  tongue  no  man  could 

read. 
And    Merlin    call'd     it     'The     Siege 

perilous,* 
Perilous  for  good  and  ill ;  '  for  there,' 

he  said, 
*  No  man  could  sit  but  he  should  lose 

himself : ' 
And  once  by  misadvertence  Merlin  sat 
In  his  own  chair,  and  so  was  lost ;  but 

he, 
Galahad,   when   he  heard  of  Merlin's 

doom, 
Cried,  *  If  I  lose  myself  I  save  myself  ! ' 

*'Then  on  a  summer  night  it  came  to 
pass,       % 

While  the  great  banquet  lay  along  the 
hall, 

That  Galahad  would  sit  down  in  Mer- 
lin's chair. 

"  And   all  at  once,  as  there  we  sat, 

we  heard 
A  cracking  and  a  riving  of  the  roofs. 
And   rending,   and  a  blast,  and  over- 
head 
Thunder,  and  in  the  thunder  was  a  cry. 
And  in  the  blast  there  smote  along  the 

hall 
A  beam  of  light  seven  times  more  clear 

than  day : 
And   down   the   long   beam   stole  the 

Holy  Grail 
All  over  cover'd  with  a  luminous  cloud, 
And  none  might  see  who  bare  it,  aiulit 

past. 
But  every   knight  beheld   his  fellow's 

face 
As  in  a  glory,  and  all  the  knights  arose, 
And   staring   each  at  other  like  dumb 

men 
Stood,  till  I  found  a  voice  and  sware  a 

vow. 

"I   sware   a   vow   before    them   all, 

that  I, 
Because  I  had  not  seen  the  Grail,  would 

ride 
A  twelvemonth  and  a  day  in  quest  of  it, 


The  figures,  like  a  serpent,  ran  a  scroll  \  Until  I  found  and  saw  it,  as  the  nun 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


409 


My  sister  saw  it ;  and  Galahad  sware 

the  vow, 
And  good    Sir   Bors,    our   Lancelot's 

cousin,  sware. 
And  Lancelot  sware,  and  many  among 

the  knights. 
And  Gawain  sware,  and  louder  than  the 

rest." 

Then  spake  the  monk  Ambrosias, 
asking  him, 
**  What  said  the  king  ?  Did  Arthur  take 
the  vow  ? " 

"  Nay,    my    lord,"     said   Percivale, 

"  the  King 
Was  not  in  hall :   for  early  that  same 

day, 
'Scaped  thro'  a  cavern  from  a  bandit 

hold, 
An   outraged   maiden   sprang  into  the 

hall 
Crying  on  help:  for  all  her  shining  hair 
Was   smear'd   with   earth,  and   either 

milky  arm 
Red-rent   with  hooks  of  bramble,  and 

all  she  wore 
Torn  as  a  sail  that  leaves  the  rope  is 

torn 
In  tempest :  so  the  King  arose  and  went 
To  smoke  the  scandalous  hive  of  those 

wild  bees 
That  made  such   honey  in  his  realm. 

Howbeit 
Some  little  of  this  marvel  he  too  saw. 
Returning    o'er   the    plain   that    then 

began 
To  darken  under  Camelot:  whence  the 

King 
Look'd  up,  calling  aloud,    '  Lo   there ! 

the  roofs 
Of  our  great  Hall  are  rolled  in  thunder- 
smoke  ! 
Pray  Heaven,  they  be  not  smitten  by 

'the  bolt.' 
For  dear  to  Arthur  was   that  hall   of 

ours. 
As   havmg   there   so   oft   with   all  his 

knights 
Feasted,   and  as  the  stateliest  under 

heaven. 


"O    brother,    had    you   known  our 

mighty  hall. 
Which   Merlin  built   for  Arthur  long 

ago! 
For  all  the  sacred  mount  of  Camelot, 
And  all  the  dim  rich  city,  roof  by  roof, 
Tower  after  tower,  spire  beyond  spire, 
By  grove,  and  garden-lawn,  and  rushing 

brook, 
Climbs  to  the  mighty  hall  that  Merlin 

built. 
And  four  great  zones  of  sculpture,  set 

betwixt 
With  many  a  mystic  symbol,  gird   the 

hall : 
And  in  the  lowest  beasts  are  slaying 

men, 
And   in   the   second   men  are   slaying 

beasts. 
And  on  the  third  are  warriors,  perfect 

men. 
And  on  the  fourth  are  men  with  grow- 
ing wings, 
And  over  all  one  statue  in  the  mould 
Of  Arthur,  made  by  Merlin,  with  a 

crown, 
And  peak'd  wings  pointed  to  the  Nor- 
thern Star. 
And   eastward   fronts  the   statue,  and 

the  crown 
And  both  the  wings  are  made  of  gold, 

and  flame 
At  sunrise  till  the  people  in  far  fields, 
Wasted  so  often  by  the  heathen  hordes, 
Behold  It,   crying,   '  We   have  still   a 

king.' 

"  And,  brother,  had  you  known  our 

hall  withm. 
Broader  and  higher  than  any  in  all  the 

lands ! 
Where  twelve   great  windows   blazon 

Arthur's  wars, 
And  all  the  light  that  falls  upon  the 

board 
Streams  thro'  the  twelve  great  battles 

of  our  King 
Nay,  one  there  is,  and  at  the  eastern 

end. 
Wealthy  with  wandering  lines  of  mount 

and  mere, 


410 


THE  HOL  Y  GRAIL. 


"Where  Arthur  finds  the  brand,  Excali- 

bur, 
And  also  one  to  the  west,  and  counter 

to  it, 
And  blank :  and  who  shall  blazon  it  ? 

when  and  how  ? — 
O  there,  perchance,  when  all  our  wars 

are  done, 
The  brand  Excalibur  will  be  cast  away. 

'^  So  to  this  hall  full  quickly  rode  the 

King, 
In  horror  lest    the  work    by   Merlin 

wrought, 
Dreamlike,  should  on  the  sudden  van- 
ish, wrapt 
In  unremorseful  folds  of  rolling  fire. 
And  in  he  rode,  and  up  I  glanced,  and 

saw 
The  golden  dragon  sparkling  over  all: 
And  many  of  those  who  burnt  the  hold, 

their  arms 
Hack'd,   and    their   foreheads  grimed 

with  smoke,  and  sear'd, 
Follow'd,  and  in  among  bright  faces, 

ours. 
Full  of  the  vision,  prest :  and  then  the 

King 
Spake  to  me,  being  nearest,  *  Percivale, 
(Because  the  hall  was  all  in  tumult — 

some 
Vowing,  and  some  protesting),  'what  is 

this?' 

"  O   brother,  when  I  told  him   what 

had  chanced, 
My  sister's  vision,  and  the  rest,  his  face 
Darken'd,  as  I  have  seen  it  more  than 

once. 
When  some  brave  deed  seem'd  to  be 

done  in  vain, 
Darken ;     and      *  Woe      is     me,     my 

knights  ! '  he  cried, 

*  Had  I  been  here,  ye  had  not  sworn  the 

vow.' 
Bold  was  mine  answer,   '  Had  thyself 

been  here, 
My  King,  thou  wouldst  have   sworn.* 

*  Yea,  yea,'  said  he, 

*  Art  thou  so  bold  and  hast  not  seen  the 

Grail  ? ' 


*' '  Nay,  Lord,  I  heard  the  sound,  I 
saw  the  light, 
But  since  I  did  not  see  the  Holy  Thing, 
I  sware  a  vow  to  follow  it  till  1  saw.' 

"  Then  when  he  asked  us,  knight  by 

knight,  if  any 
Had  seen  it,  all  their  answers  were  as 

one: 
'  Nay,   Lord,   and  therefore  have    we 

sworn  our  vows.' 

"  *  Lo  now,'  said  Arthur,     have  ye 
seen  a  cloud.'' 
What  go  ye  into  the  wilderness  to  see .-' ' 

"  Then  Galahad  on  the  sudden,  and 

in  a  voice 
Shrilling    along    the   hall    to   Arthur, 

call'd, 
'But  I,  Sir  Arthur,  saw  the  Holy  Grail, 
I  saw  the  Holy  Grail  and  heard  a  cry — 
O  Galahad,  and  O  Galahad,  follow  me.* 

"  '  Ah,  Galahad,  Galahad,'  said  the 

King,  *  for  such 
As  thou  art  is  the  vision,  not  for  these. 
Thy   holy  nun   and  thou  have  seen  a 

sign- 
Holier   is   none,    my    Percivale,   than 

she — 
A  sign   to   maim  this   Order  which  I 

made. 
But  you,  that  follow  but  the  leader's 

bell,' 
(Brother,  the  king  was  hard  upon  his 

knights,) 
*  Taliessin  is  our  fullest  throat  of  song, 
And  one  hath  sung   and  all  the   dumb 

will  sing. 
Lancelot   is   Lancelot,  and  hath  over- 
borne 
Five  knights  at  once,  and  every  younger 

knight, 
Unproven,  holds  himself  as  Lancelot, 
Till  overborne  by  one,  he  Ifcarns — and 

What    are    ye?    Galahads  ? — no,  nor 

Percivales ' 
(For  thus  it  pleased  the  King  to  range 

niv  cJose 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


411 


After  Sir   Galahad);   'nay,'  said  he, 

-  but  men 
"With  strength  and  will  to  right  the 

wrong'd,  of  power 
To  lay  the  sudden  head  of  violence  flat, 
Knights  that   in  twelve   great  battles 

splash'd  and  dyed 
The  strong  White  Horse  in  his  own 

heathen  blood — 
But  one  hath  seen,  and  all  the  blind 

will  see. 
Go,  since  your  vows  are  sacred  being 

made: 
Yet — for  ye  know  the  cries  of  all  my 

realm. 
Pass  thro'  this  hall,— how  often,  O  my 

knights, 
Your  places  being  vacant  at  my  side. 
This  chance  of  noble  deeds  will  come 

and  go 
Unchallenged,   while  you  follow  wan- 
dering fires 
Lost   in  the   quagmire  ?  many  of  you, 

yea  most. 
Return  no  more  :  ye  think  I  show  my- 
self 
Too  dark  a  prophet :  come  now,  let  us 

meet 
The  morrow  morn  once  more  in  one 

full  field  [king. 

Of  gracious  pastime,  that  once.more  the 
Before  you  leave  him  for  this  Quest, 

may  count 
The   yet-unbroken  strength  of  all  his 

knights, 
Rejoicing    in    that   Order    which    he 

made.* 

"So  when  the  sun  broke  next  from 

underground. 
All  the  great  table  of  our  Arthur  closed 
And  clash'd  in  such  a  tourney  and  so 

full, 
So  many  lances  broken — never  yet 
Had   Camelot   seen     the     like,   since 

Arthur  came; 
And  I  myself     and     Galahad,   for     a 

strength 
Was  in  us  from  the  vision,  overthrew 
So    many  knights  that  all  the  people 

cried, 


And  almost  burst  the  barriers  in  their 

heat, 
Shouting,  *  Sir  Galahad  and  Sir  Perci- 

vale  I ' 

"  But  when  the  next  day  brake  from 

underground — 
O  brother,  had  you  known  our  Came* 

lot, 
Built  by  old  kings,  age  after  age,  so  old 
The  king  himself  had  fears  tha  it  would 

fall. 
So   strange,    and   rich,   and   dim:    for 

where  the  roofs 
Totter'd  toward  each  other  in  the  sky, 
Met  foreheads  all  along   the   street  of 

those 
Who  watch'd  us  pass ;  and  lower,  and 

where  the  long 
Rich  galleries,  lady-laden,  wergh'd  the 

necks 
Of  dragons  clinging  to  the  crazy  walls. 
Thicker     than     drops    from    thunder, 

showers  of  flowers 
Fell  as   we   past ;  and   men  and  boys 

astride 
On  wyvern,  lion,  dragon,  griffin,  swan, 
At  all  the  corners,  named  us  each  by 

name. 
Calling  'God  speed ! '  but  in  the  street 

below 
The  knights  and  ladies  wept,  and  rich 

and  poor 
Wept,    and   the    King   himself  could 

hardly  speak 
For  grief,  and  in  the  middle  street  the 

Queen, 
Who    rode   by   Lancelot,   wail'd    and 

shriek'd  aloud, 
*  This  madness  has  come  on  us  for  our 

sins.' 
And    then    we    reach'd    the     weirdly 

sculptured  gate. 
Where   Arthur's  wars   were   render'd 

mystically, 
And   thence  departed  every  one   Lis 

way. 

"  And  I  was  lifted  up  in  heart,  and 
thought 
Of  all  my  late-shov/n  prowess  in  the 
lists, 


412 


THE  HOL  V  GRAIL. 


How  my  strong  lance  had  beaten  down 

the  knights, 
So    many    and    famous    names;    and 

never  yet 
Had   heaven   appear'd    so    blue,   nor 

earth  so  green, 
For  all  my  blood  danced  in  me,  and  I 

knew 
That   I   should  light  upon  the  Holy 

Grail. 

"Thereafter,  the  dark  warning  of 
our  King, 

That  most  of  us  would  follow  wander- 
ing fires, 

Came  like  a  driving  gloom  across  my 
mind.  [once. 

Then  every  evil  word  I  had  spoken 

And  every  evil  thought  I  had  thought 
of  old, 

And  every  evil  deed  I  ever  did, 

Awoke  and  cried,  'This  Quest  is  not 
for  thee.' 

And  lifting  up  mine  eyes,  I  found  my- 
self 

Alone,  and  in  a  land  of  sand  and 
thorns. 

And  I  was  thirsty  even  unto  death ; 

And  I,  too,  cried,  '  This  Quest  is  not 
for  thee.' 

"  And  on  I  rode,  and  when  I  thought 

my  thirst 
Would  slay  me,  saw  deep  lawns,  and 

then  a  brook. 
With  one  sharp  rapid,  where  the  crisp- 
ing white 
Play'd  ever  back  upon  the  sloping  wave, 
And  took  both  ear  and  eye ;  and  o'er 

the  brook 
Were  apple-trees,  and  apples  by  the 

brook 
Fallen,  and  on  the  lawns,  '  I  will  rest 

here,' 
I  said,  '  I  am  not  worthy  of  the  Quest;' 
But  even  while  I  drank  the  brook,  and 

ate 
The  goodly  apples,  all  these  things  at 

once 
Fell  into  dust,  and  I  was  left  alone. 
And  thirsting,  in  a  land  of  sand  and 

thorns. 


"  And  then  behold  a  woman  at  a 
door 

Spinning;  and  fair  the  house  whereby 
she  sat, 

And  kind  the  woman's  eyes  and  inno- 
cent, 

And  all  her  bearing  gracious  ;  and  she 
rose 

Opening  her  arms  to  meet  me,  as  who 
should  say, 

*  Rest  here  ; '  but  when  I  touch'd  her, 

lo  !  she,  too. 
Fell  into  dust  and  nothing,  and  the 

house 
Became  no  better  than  a  broken  shed, 
And  in  it  a  dead  babe  ;  and  also  this 
Fell  into  dust,  and  I  was  left  alone. 

"And  on  I  rode,  and  greater  was 

my  thirst. 
Then  flash'd  a  yellow  gleam  across  the 

world. 
And  where  it  smote  the  ploughshare 

in  the  field, 
The  ploughman  left  his  ploughing,  and 

fell  down 
Before  it ;    where    it  glitter'd  on  her 

pail. 
The  milkmaid  left  her  milking,  and  fell 

down 
Before  it,  and   I  knew  not  why,  but 

thought  [risen. 

*  The  sun  is  rising,'  tho'  the  sun  had 
Then  was  I   ware  of  one  that  on  me 

moved 
In  golden  armor  with  a  crown  of  gold 
About  a  casque   all   jewels;    and  his 

horse 
\'\  golden  armor  jewell'd  everywhere  : 
And  on  the  splendor  came,  flashing  me 

blind ; 
And  seem'd  to  me  the  Lord  of  all  the 

world. 
Being  so  huge.     But  when  I  thought 

he  meant 
To  crush  me,  moving  on  me,  lo !  he, 

too. 
Opened  his  arms  to  embrace  me  as  he 

came, 
And  up  I  went  and  touch'd  him,  and 

he,  too, 


THE  HOL  V  GRATL. 


4x3 


Fell  into  dust,  and  I  was  left  alone 
And  wearying  in  a  land  of  sand  and 
thorns. 

*'  And  I  rode  on  and  found  a  mighty 

hill, 
And  on   the  top,  a  city  wall'd  :  the 

spires 
Prick'd  with  incredible  pinnacles  into 

heaven. 
And  by  the  gateway  stirr'd  a  crowd ; 

and  these 
Cried  to  me  climbing,  *  Welcome,  Per- 

civale ! 
Thou     mightiest     and     thou     purest 

among  men ! ' 
And  glad  was  I  and  clomb,  but  found 

at  top 
No  man,  nor  any  voice.     And  thence 

I  past 
Far  thro'  a  ruinous  city,  and  I  saw 
That  man  had  once  dwelt  there ;  but 

there  I  found 
Only  one  man  of  an  exceeding  age. 

•  Where  is  that  goodly  company,'  said  I, 

•  That  so  cried  out  upon  me  ? '  and  he 

had 
Scarce  any  voice  to  answer,  and  yet 

gasp'd 
'Whence   and  what  art  thou?'    and 

even  as  he  spoke 
Fell  into  dust,  and  disappear' d,  and  I 
Was  left  alone  once  more,  and  cried  in 

grief, 
•Lo,  if  I  find  the  Holy  Grail  itself 
And    touch  it,    it  will   crumble    into 

dust.' 

"  And  thence  I  dropt  into  a  lowly 
vale. 

Low  as  the  hill  was  high,  and  where 
the  vale 

Was  lowest,  found  a  chapel  and  there- 
by 

A  holy  hermit  in  a  hermitage, 

To  whom  I  told  my  phantoms,  and  he 
said  : 

"  *  O  son,  thou  hast  not  true  humility. 
The   highest  virtue,  mother  of  them 
all: 


For  when  the  Lord  of  all  things  made 

Himself 
Naked  of  glory  for  His  mortal  change, 
" Take  thou  mv  robe,"  she  said,  "for 

all  is  thine'." 
And  all   her  form  shone  forth  with 

sudden  light 
So  that  the  angels  were  amazed,  and 

she 
Follow'd  him  down,  and  like  a  flying 

star 
Led  on  the  gray-hair'd  wisdom  of  the 

east  ; 
But    her   thou  hast  not  known:    for 

what  is  this 
Thou  thoughtest  of  thy  prowess  and 

thy  sins  "i 
Thou  hast  not  lost  thyself  to  save  thy- 
self 
As  Galahad.'     When  the  hermit  made 

an  end, 
In    silver    armor   suddenly    Galahad 

shone 
Before  us,  and  against  the  chapel  door 
Laid  lance,  and  enter'd,  and  we  knelt 

in  prayer. 
And  there  the  hermit  slaked  my  burn- 
ing thirst, 
And  at  the  sacring  of  the  mass  I  saw 
The  holy  elements  -alone ;  but  he : 
'S.iw  ye   no  vdQxO.    L  Galahad,  saw 

the  Grail, 
The   Holy  Grail,   descend    upon   the 

shrine  : 
I  saw  the  fiery  face  as  of  a  child 
That  smote  itself  into  the  bread,  and 

went; 
And  hither  am  I   come ;    and  never 

yet 
Hath  what  thy  sister  taught  me  first  to 

see, 
This  Holy  Thing,  fail'd  from  my  side, 

nor  come 
Cover'd,  but  moving  with   me   night 

and  day. 
Fainter   by   day,   but    always    in    the 

night 
Blood-red,  and  sliding  down  the  black* 

en'd  marsh 
Blood-red,  and  on  the  naked  mountain 

top 


414 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


Blood-red,  and  in  the  sleeping   mere 

below 
Blood-red.      And  in  the   strength   of 

this  I  rode, 
Shattering  all  evil  customs  everywhere, 
And    past    thro'    Pagan    realms,   and 

made  them  mine, 
And  clashed  with  Pagan  hordes,  and 

bore  them  down. 
And  broke  thro'  all,  and  in  the  strength 

of  this 
Come  victor.     But  my  time  is  hard  at 

hand, 
And  hence  I  go ;  and  one  will  crown 

me  king 
Far   in  the  spiritual  city;    and  come 

thou,  too. 
For  thou  shalt  see   the  vision  when 

I  go.' 

"While  thus  he  spake,  his  eye, 
dwelling  on  mine, 

Drew  me,  with  power  upon  me,  till  I 
grew 

One  with  him,  to  believe  as  he  be- 
lieved. 

Then,  when  the  day  began  to  wane,  we 
went. 

"There  rose  a  hill  that  none  but 
man  could  climb, 

Scarr'd  with  a  hundred  wintry  water- 
courses— 

Storm  at  the  top,  and  when  we  gain'd 
it,  storm 

Round  us  and  death;  for  every  mo- 
ment glanced 

His  silver  arms  and  gloom'd :  so  quick 
and  thick 

The  lightnings  here  and  there  to  left 
and  right 

Struck,  till  the  dry  old  trunks  about  us, 
dead. 

Yea,  rotten  with  a  hundred  years  of 
death, 

Sprang  into  fire :  and  at  the  base  we 
found 

On  either  hand,  as  far  as  eye  could 
see, 

A  great  black  swamp  and  of  an  evil 
smell, 


Part    black,   part   whiten'd    with    the 

bones  of  men, 
Not  to  be  crost,  save  that  some  ancient 

king 
Had   built  a  way,   where,   link'd  with 

many  a  bridge, 
A  thousand  piers  ran   into  the  pre^.t 

Sea. 
And  Galahad  fled  along  them  bridge 

by  bridge. 
And   every   bridge   as   quickly   as   he 

crost 
Sprang  into  fire  and  vanish'd,   tho'  I 

yearn'd 
To  follow ;  and  thrice  above  him  all 

the  heavens 
Open'd  and  blaz'd  with  thunder  such 

as  seem'd 
Shoutings  of  all  the  sons  of  God :  and 

first  [Sea, 

At  once  I  saw  him  far  on  the  great 
In  silver-shining  armor  starry-clear  ; 
And  o'er  his  head  the  holy  vessel  hung 
Clothed  in  white  samite  or  a  luminous 

cloud. 
And  with  exceeding  swiftness  ran  the 

boat 
If  boat  it  were — I  saw  not  whence  it 

came. 
And   when    the    heavens  open'd    and 

blazed  again 
Roaring,  I  saw  him  like  a  silver  star — 
And  had  he  set  the  sail,  or  had  the 

boat 
Become   a   living   creature   clad   with 

wings  ? 
And  o'er  his  head  the  holy  vessel  hung 
Redder  than  any  rose,  a  joy  to  me. 
For   now  I   knew  the   veil   had   been 

withdrawn. 
Then  in  a  moment  when  they  blazed 

again 
Opening,  I  saw  the  least  of  little  stars 
Down  on  the  waste,  and  straight  be- 
yond the  star 
I  saw   the   spiritual  city  and  all  her 

spires 
And   gateways    in  -a  glory    like    one 

pearl — 
No   larger,   tho'  the   goal    of  all   the 

saints — 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


415 


Strike  from  the  sea;  and  from  the  star 

there  shot 
A    rose-red   sparkle   to   the   city,   and 

there 
Dwelt,  and  I  knew  it  was  the   Holy 

Grail,  [see. 

Which  never  eyes  on  earth  again  shall 
Then  fell  the  floods  of  heaven  drown- 
ing the  deep. 
And  how  my  feet  recross'd  the  death- 

ful  ridge 
No  memory  in  me  lives;  but  that  I 

touch'd 
The  chapel-doors  at  dawn  I  know ;  and 

thence 
Taking  my  war-horse   from   the  holy 

man. 
Glad  that  no  phantom  vext  me  more, 

return'd 
To  whence  I  came,  the  gate  of  Arthur's 

wax 

"O   brother,"    ask'd    Ambrosius, — 

"for  in  sooth 
These  ancient  books — and  they  would 

win  thee — teem. 
Only  I  find  not  there  this  Holy  Grail, 
With   miracles   and    marvels    like   to 

these, 
Not  all    unlike;    which    oftentime    I 

read. 
Who  read  but  on  my  breviary  with 

ease, 
Till   my   head  swims;    and   then    go 

forth  and  pass 
Down  to  the  little  thorpe  that  lies  so 

close, 
And  almost  plaster'd  like  a  martin's 

nest 
To  these  old  walls — and  mingle  with 

our  folk ; 
And  knowing    every  honest    face   of 

theirs, 
As  well   as  ever  shepherd  knew  his 

sheep. 
And    every    homely    secret    in    their 

hearts. 
Delight   myself  with  gossip   and   old 

wives, 
And  ills    and    aches,  and    teethings, 

lyings-in, 


And  mirthful  sayings,  children  of  the 

place. 
That  have  no  meaning  half  a  league 

away : 
Or    lulling    random    squabbles  when 

they  rise, 
Chafferings    and    chatterings    at    the 

market-cross. 
Rejoice,  small  man,  in  this  small  world 

of  mine,  [eggs,-— 

Yea,  even  in  their  hens  and  in  their 
O  brother,  saving  this  Sir  Galahad 
Came  ye  on  none  but  phantoms  in  your 

quest. 
No  man,  no  woman  ?  " 

Then,  Sir  Percivale : 
"  All  men,  to  one   so  bound  by  such  a 

vow, 
And  women  were  as  phantoms.     O  my 

brother. 
Why  wilt  thou  shame  me  to  confess  to 

thee 
How    ar  I  falter'd  from  my  quest  and 

vow  ? 
For  after  I  had  lain  so  many  nights 
A   bedmate   of   the   snail   and  eft  and 

snake, 
In   grass  and   burdock,  I  was  changed 

to  wan 
And   meagre,  and  the  vision   had  not 

come, 
And  then  I    chanced   upon  a  goodly 

town 
With  one  great  dwelling  in  the  middle 

of  it; 
Thither  I  made,  and  there  was   I   dis- 

arm'd 
By  maidens  each  as  fair  as  any  flower  : 
But  when  they  led  me  into  hall,  behold 
The  Princess  of  that  castle  was  the  one. 
Brother,  and   that   one  only,  who   had 

ever 
Made  my  heart  leap  ;  for  when  I  moved 

of  old 
A  slender  page  about  her  father's  hall. 
And  she  a  slender  maiden,  all  my  heart 
Went  after  her   with   longing  :  yet  we 

twain 
Had  never  kiss'd  a  kiss,  or  vow'd  a  vow. 
And  now  I  came  upon  her  once  again, 


4i6 


THE  HOL  Y  GRAIL. 


And  one  had  wedded   her,  and  he  was 

dead, 
And  all  his  land  and  wealth  and  state 

were  hers. 
And  while   I  tarried,  every  day  she  set 
A  banquet  richer  than  the  day  before 
By  me  ;  for  all  her  longing  and  her  will 
Was  toward  me  as  of  old ;  till  one  fair 

morn, 
I  walking  to  and  fro  beside  a  stream 
That  flash'd  across  her  orchard  under- 
neath 
Her   castle-walls,    she   stole  upon  my 

walk, 
And   calling   me   the   great-est   of    all 

knights. 
Embraced   me,  and  so  kiss'd   me   the 

jfirst  time. 
And  gave  herself  and  all  her  wealth  to 

me. 
Then  I  remember'd   Arthur's  warning 

word. 
That  most  of  us  would  follow  wander- 
ing fires, 
And    the   Quest  faded  in   my   heart. 

Anon, 
The  heads  of  all  her  people  drew  to  me, 
With   supplication  both  of  knees  and 

tongue. 
*  We  have  heard  of  thee  :  thou  art  our 

greatest  knight : 
Our  Lady  says  it,  and  we  well  believe : 
Wed  thou  our  Lady,  and  rule  over  us, 
And   thou   shalt  be  as  Arthur  in  our 

land.' 
O  me,  my  brother !  but   one  night  my 

vow 
Burnt   me    within,  so   that  I  rose  and 

fled, 
But  wail'd  and  wept,  and    hated   mine 

own  self, 
And  ev'n  the  Holy  Quest,  and  all  but 

her  ; 
Then  after  I  was  join'd  with  Galahad 
Cared  not  for  her;  nor  anything  upon 

earth." 

Then  said  the  monk,  "  Poor  men, 
when  yule  is  cold. 
Must  be  content  to  sit  by  little  fires. 
And  this  am  T,  so  that  ye  care  for  me 


Ever    so    little  ;    yea,    and    blest    be 

Heaven 
That   brought   thee  here  to  this  poor 

house  of  ours. 
Where  all  the  brethren  are  so  hard,  to 

warm 
Mv  cold  heart  with  a  friend  ;  and  O  the 

pity 
To  find  thine  own  finst  love  once  more 

—to  hold. 
Hold  her  a  wealthy  bride  within  thine 

arms. 
Or  all    but  hold,  and   then — cast   her 

aside, 
Foregoing   all    her   sweetness,   like   a 

weed. 
For  we  that  want  the  warmth  of  double 

life. 
We  that   are  plagued  with   dreams  of 

something  sweet 
Beyond  all  sweetness  in  a  life  so  rich,— 
Ah,  blessed  Lord,  I  speak  too  earthly- 
wise. 
Seeing  I  never  stray'd  beyond  the  cell. 
But  live  like  an  old  badger  in  his  earth, 
With     earth   about  him    everywhere, 

despite 
All  fast  and  penance.     Saw  ye  none 

beside. 
None  of  your  knights  ?  " 


'  Yea  so,"  said  Percivale  : 
*  One  night  my  pathway  swerving  east, 

I  saw 
The  pelican   on  the  casque  of  our  Sir 

Bors 
All  in  the  middle  of  the  rising  moon : 
And  toward  him  spurr'd  andhail'd  him, 

and  he  me. 
And  each  made  joy  of  either  ;  than  he 

ask'd. 
*  Where  is  he  ?  hast  thou  seen  him— 

Lancelot  ?     Once,' 
Said  good  Sir  Bors,  '  he  dash'd  across 

me — mad. 
And   maddening  what    he    rode :  and 

when  I  cried, 
**  Ridest  thou  then  so  hotly  on  a  quest 
So   holy  .?  "  Lancelot  shouted,  "  Stay 

me  not  I 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


417 


I  have   been  the   sluggard,  and  I  ride 

apace, 
For  now  there  is  a  lion  in  the  way." 
So  vanish'd.' 

"  Then  Sir  Bors  had  ridden  on 
Softly,  and  sorrowing  for  our  Lancelot, 
Because  his  former  madness,  once  the 

talk 
And  scandal  of  our  table,  had  return'd; 
For  Lancelot's  kith  and  kin  so  worship 

him 
That  ill  to  him  is  ill  to  them  ;  to  Bors 
Beyond   the  rest :  he   well  had   been 

content 
Not  to   have  seen,  so  Lancelot  might 

have  seen, 
The  Holy  Cup  of  healing ;  and,  indeed, 
Being   so   clouded   with  his  grief  and 

love, 
Small   heart   was  his   after  the   Holy 

Quest  : 
If  God  would  send  the  vision,  well  :  if 

not, 
The  Quest  and  he  were  in  the  hands  of 

Heaven. 

"  And   then,   with   small    adventure 

met.  Sir  Bors 
Rode  to  the  lonest  tract  of  all  the  realm, 
And  found  a  people  there  among  their 

crags, 
Our  race   and   blood,  a   remnant  that 

were  left 
Paynim  amid  their   circles,   and    the 

stones 
They  pitch  up  straight  to  heaven  :  and 

their  wise  men 
Were   strong  in  that   old  magic  which 

can  trace 
The  wandering  of  the  stars,  and  scoff'd 

at  him, 
And   this   high  Quest   as  at  a  simple 

thing  ; 
Told  him  he  follow'd — almost  Arthur's 

words — 
A  mocking  fire  :  '  what  other  fire  than 

he, 
Whereby     the   blood  beats,   and   the 

blossom  blows. 
And  the  sea  rolls,  and  all  the  world  is 

warm'd  ?  ' 


And  when  his  answer  chafed  them,  the 

rough  crowd, 
Hearing  he  had  a  difference  with  their 

priests, 
Seized   him,  and   bound  and  plunged 

him  into  a  cell 
Of    great     piled    stones  ;     and    lying 

bounden  there 
In  darkness  thro'  innumerable  hours 
He  heard  the   hollow -ringing  heavens 

sweep 
Over  him,  till  by  miracle — what  else  ? 
Heavy  as  it  was,  a  great  stone  slipt  and 

fell, 
Such  as  no  wind  could  move  :  and  thro* 

the  gap 
Glimmer 'd   the  streaming  scud  :  then 

came  a  night 
Still   as  the   day  was  loud  ;  and  thro* 

the  gap 
The  seven     clear    stars    of    Arthur's 

Table  Round — 
For,  brother,  so  one  night,  because  they 

roll 
Thro'   such    a    round    in  heaven,  we 

named  the  stars. 
Rejoicing  in  ourselves  and  in  our  king — 
And  these,  like  bright  eyes  of  familiar 

friends, 
In  on  him  shone,  *  And  then  to  me,  to 

me,' 
Said  good  Sir  Bors,  *  beyond  all  hopes 

of  mine. 
Who  scarce  had  pray  d  or  ask'd  it  for 

myself — 
Across  the  seven  clear  stars — O  grace 

to  me — 
In  color  like  the  fingers  of  a  hand 
Before  a  burning  taper,  the  sweet  Grail 
Glided   and   past,   and   close  upon  it 

peal'd 
A  sharp  quick  thunder.'    Afterwards 

a  maid, 
Who  kept  our  holy  faith  among  her  kin 
In  secret,  entering  loosed  and  let  him 

go." 

To   whom  the  monk  :  "  And  I   re- 
member now 
That  pelican  on  the  casque  :  Sir  Bors 
it  was 


4i8 


77/^5"  HOL  V  GRAIL. 


Who  spake   so  low  and  sadly  at  our 

board  ; 
And  mighty  reverent  at  our  grace  was 

he  : 
A  square-set  man  and  honest  :  and  his 

eyes, 
An   out-door  sign  of  all  the  warmth 

within, 
Smiled  with  his  lips — a  smile  beneath 

a  cloud, 
But  Heaven  had  meant  it  for  a  sunny 

one  : 
Ay,  ay.  Sir  Bors,  who  else  ?    But  when 

ye  reach'd 
The  city,  found  ye  all   your  knights 

return'd, 
Or  was  there  sooth  in  Arthur's  proph- 
ecy, 
Tell  me,  and  what  said  each,  and  what 

the  King  ? 

Then    answer'd     Percivale  ;  "  And 

that  can  T, 
Brother,   and  truly  :  since  the  living 

words 
Of  so  great  men  as  Lancelot  and  our 

King 
Pass  not  from   door  to   door  and  out 

again, 
But  sit  within  the  house.     O,  when  we 

reach'd 
The  city,  our  horses  stumbling  as  they 

trode 
On  heaps  of  ruin,  hornless  unicorns, 
Crack'd  basilisks,  and  splinter'd  cocka- 
trices, 
And   shatter'd  talbots,  which  had  left 

the  stones  ' '^  ^ 

Raw,  that  they  fell  from,  brought  us  to 

the  hal). 

**  And  there  sat  Arthur  on  the  dais- 
throne, 

And  those  that  had  gone  out  upon  the 
Quest, 

Wasted  and  worn,  and  but  a  tithe  of 
them. 

And  those  that  had  not,  stood  before 
the  King. 

Who,  when  he  saw  me,  rose,  and  bade 
me  hail. 


Saying, '  A    welfare   in   thine  eye  re« 

proves 
Our  fear  of  some  disastrous  chance  for 

thee 
On  hill,  or  plain,  at  sea,  or  flooding 

ford. 
So  fierce  a  gale  made  havoc  here  of 

late 
Among  the  strange  devices    of    our 

kings  ; 
Yea,  shook  this  newer,  stronger  hall 

of  ours, 
And   from  the  statue  Merlin  moulded 

for  us 
Half  wrench'd  a  golden  wing  ;  but  now 

— the  quest. 
This  vision — hast  thou  seen  the  Holy 

Cup, 
That  Joseph  brought  of  old  to  Glas- 
tonbury ? ' 

"  So  when  I  told  him  all  thyself  hast 

heard, 
Ambrosius,    and    my    fresh    but    fixt 

resolve 
To  pass  away  into  the  quiet  life. 
He  answer'd  not,  but,  sharply  turning, 

ask'd 
Of  Gawain,  *  Gawain,  was  this  Quest 

for  thee  .? ' 

'*  *  Nay,  lord,'  said  Gawain,  '  not  for 
such  as  I. 
Therefore  I  communed  with  a  saintly 

man. 
Who  made  me  sure  the  Quest  was  not 

for  me. 
For  I  was  much  awearied  of  the  Quest; 
But  found  a  silk  pavilion  in  a  field, 
And   merry   maidens  in   it ;  and  then 

this  gale 
Tore  my  pavilion  from  the  tenting-pin, 
And  blew  my  merry  maidens  all  about 
With  all  discomfort ;  yea,  and  but  fol 

this. 
My  twelvemonth  and  a  day  were  pleas- 
ant to  me.' 

"  He    ceased ;  and  Arthur  turn'd  to 
whom  at  first 
He  saw  not,  for  Sir  Bcrs,  on  entering^ 
push'd 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


419 


Athwart  the  throng  to  Lancelot,  caught 

his  hand, 
Held  it,  and  there,  half  hidden  by  him, 

stood, 
Until  the   King  espied  him,  saying  to 

him, 
'  Hail,  Bors  !  if  ever  loyal   man  and 

true 
Could  see  it,  thou  hast  seen  the  Grail ; ' 

and  Bors, 

•  Ask  me  not,  for  I  may  not  speak  cf  it, 
I  saw  it:'  and  the  tears  were  in  his 

eyes — 

"  Then  there  remain'd  but  Lancelot, 

for  the  rest 
Spake    but    of    sundry  perils   in   the 

storm  ;    • 
Perhaps,   like   him  of  Cana  in  Holy 

Writ, 
Our  Arthur  kept  his  best  until  the  last. 
'  Thou,  too,  my  Lancelot,'  ask'd  the 

King,  '  my  friend. 
Our  mightiest,  hath  this  Quest  avail'd 

for  thee  ? ' 

"  '  Our  mightiest  ! '  answer'd  Lance- 
lot, with  a  groan  ; 

•  O  King ! ' — and  when   he  paused,  me- 
•    thought  I  spied 

A  dying  fire  of  madness  in  his  eyes, — 

•  O  King,  my   friend,  if  friend  of  thine 

I  be, 
Happier  are  those  that  welter  in  their 

sin, 
Swine  in   the  mud,    that   cannot    see 

for  slime, 
Slime  of  the  ditch  :  but  in  me  lived  a 

sin 
So  strange,  of  such  a  kind,  that  all  of 

pure, 
Noble,  and  knightly  in  me  twined  and 

clung 
Round  that  one  sin,  until   the  whole- 
some flower 
And  poisonous  grew  together,  each  as 

each, 
Not  to  be  pluck'd  asunder;  and  when 

thy  knights 
Sware,  I  sware  with  them  only  in  the 

hope 


That  could  I  touch  or  see  the  Holy 

Grail 
They  might  be  pluck'd  asunder  :  then 

I  spake 
To  one  most  holy  saint,  who  wept  and 

said. 
That    save     they    could    be     pluck'd 

asunder,  all 
My  quest  were  but  in  vain ;  to  whom  I 

vow'd 
That  I  would  work  according  as  he 

will'd. 
And  forth  I  went,  and  while  I  yearn'd 

and  strove 
To  tear  the  twain  asunder  in  my  heart, 
My  madness  came  upon  me  as  of  old. 
And   whipt   me   into  waste   fields  far 

away ; 
There  was  I  beaten  down  by  little 

men. 
Mean  knights,  to  whom  the  moving  of 

my  sword 
And  shadow  of  my  spear  had  been 

enow 
To  scare  them  from  me  once  ;  and  then 

I  came 
All  in  my  folly  to  the  naked  shore. 
Wide  flats,  where  nothing  but  coarse 

grasses  grew  ; 
But  such  a  blast,  my  King,  began  to 

blow, 
So  loud  a  blast  along  the  shore  and 

sea,  [blast. 

Ye  could  not  hear  the  waters  for  the 
Tho'  heapt  in  mounds  and  ridges  all 

the  sea 
Drove  like  a  cataract,  and  all  the  sand 
Swept  like  a  river,  and  the  clouded 

heavens 
Were  shaken  with  the  motion  and  the 

sound. 
And  blackening  in  the  sea-foam  sway'd 

a  boat. 
Half  swallow'd  in  it,  anchor'd   with  a 

chain  ; 
And  in  my  madness  to  myself  I  said, 
"  I  will  embark  and  I  will  lose  myself, 
And  in  the  great  sea  wash  away  my 

sin." 
I  burst  the  chain,  I  sprang  into  the 

boat. 


420 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


Seven  days  I  drove  along  the  weary 

deep, 
And  with  me  drove  the  moon  and  all 

the  stars; 
And  the  wind  fell,  and  on  the  seventh 

night 
I   heard   the   shingle  grinding  in  the 

surge, 
And   felt  the   boat  shock   earth,   and 

looking  up, 
Behold,  the  enchanted  towers  of  Car- 

bonek, 
A  castle  like  a  rock  upon  a  rock, 
With  chasm-like  portals  open  to  the 

sea, 
And  steps  that  met  the  breaker  !  there 

was  none 
Stood  near  it  but  a  lion  on  each  side 
That  kept  the  entry,  and  the  moon  was 

full. 
Then  from  the  boat  I  leapt,  and  up 

the  stairs- 
There  drew  my  sword.     With  sudden- 
flaring  manes 
Those   two  great  beasts  rose  upright 

like  a  man. 
Each  gript  a  shoulder,  and  I  stood  be- 
tween ; 
And  when  I  would  have  smitten  them, 

heard  a  voice, 
"Doubt    not,    go     forward;   if    thou 

doubt,  the  beasts 
Will  tear  thee  piecemeal ; "  then  with 

violence 
The  sword  was  dash'd  from  out  my 

hand,  and  fell. 
And  up  into  the  sounding  hall  I  past; 
But  nothing  in  the  sounding  hall  I  saw. 
No  bench  nor  table,  painting  on   the 

wall 
Or  shield  of  knight ;  only  the  rounded 

moon 
Thro'  the  tall  oriel  on  the  rolling  sea. 
But  always  in  the  quiet  house  I  heard. 
Clear  as  a  lark,  high  o'er  me  as  a  lark, 
A  sweet  voice  singing  in  the  topmost 

tower 
To  the  eastward  :  up  I  climb'd  a  thou- 
sand steps 
With  pain :  as  in  a  dream  I  seem'd  to 

climb 


Forever  :  at  the  last  I  reach'd  a  door, 
A  light   was   in   the   crannies,   and  1 

heard, 
"  Glory  and  joy  and  honor  to  our  Lord, 
And  to  the  Holy  Vessel  of  the  Grail." 
Then   in   my   madness   I   essay'd   the 

door; 
It  gave,   and   thro'  a   stormy  glare,  a 

heat 
As  from  a  seventimes-heated  furnace, 

I, 
Blasted  and  burnt,  and  blinded  as  I 

was, 
With  such  a  fierceness  that  I  swoon'd 

away — 
O,   yet   me  thought   I   saw    the    Holy 

Grail, 
All    pall'd    in   crimson     samite,     and 

around 
Great  angels,  awful  shapes,  and  wings 

and  eyes. 
And  but  for  all  my  madness  and  my 

sin,  [saw 

And  then  my  swooning,  I  had  sworn  I 
That  which  I  saw  ;  but  what  I  saw  was 

veil'd 
And  cover'd;  and  this  quest  was  not 

for  me.' 

"  So   speaking,   and    here    ceasing 

Lancelot  left 
The    hall  long  silent,  till  Sir  Gawain 

—nay. 
Brother,  I  need  not  tell  thee  foolish 

words, — 
A  reckless  and  irreverent  knight  waSi 

he. 
Now   bolden'd  by  the  silence  of  his 

King. 
Well,  I   will   tell   thee :  '  O  king,  my 

liege,'  he  said, 
*  Hath  Gawain  fail'd  in  any  quest  of 

thine  ? 
When  have  I  stinted  stroke  in  foughten 

fiel(^.? 
But  as  for  thine,  my  good  friend.  Per* 

civale, 
Thy  holy  nun  and  thou  have  driven 

men  mad. 
Yea,  made  our  mightiest  madder  tha» 

our  least. 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


421 


But  by  mine  eyes  and  by  mine  ears  I 

swear, 
I  will  be  deafer  than  the  blue-eyed  cat, 
And   thrice  as  blind  as   any  noonday 

owl, 
To  holy  virgins  in  their  ecstasies, 
Henceforward.' 

"  '  Deafer,'  said  the  blameless  King, 
*  Gawsin,  and  blinder  unto  holy  things 
Hope  not  to  make  thyself  by  idle  vows, 
Being  too  blind  to  have  desire  to  see. 
But  if  indeed   there  came  a   sign  from 

heaven, 
Blessed  are  Bors,  Lancelot,  and  Perci- 

vale, 
For  these  have  seen  according  to  their 

sight. 
For  every  fiery  prophet  in  old  times, 
And  all   the   sacred   madness  of  the 

bard. 
When  God  made  music  thro'  them, 

could  but  speak 
His  music  by  the  framework  and  the 

chord ; 
And  as  ye  saw  it  ye  have  spoken  truth. 

**  *  Nay — but  thou  errest,  Lancelot  : 

never  yet 
Could  all  of  true  and  noble  in  knight 

and  man 
Twine  round  one  sin,  whatever  it  might 

be. 
With  such  a  closeness,  but  apart  there 

grew. 
Save   that  he    were  the  swine    thou 

spakest  of, 
Some   root  of  knighthood  and    pure 

nobleness  ; 
Whereto  see  thou,  that  it  may  bear  its 

flower. 

"  *  And  spake  I  not  too  truly,  O  my 
knights  .'* 

Was  I  too  dark  a  prophet  when  I  said 

To  those  who  went  upon  the  Holy 
Quest, 

That  most  of  them  would  follow  wand- 
ering fires. 

Lost  in  the  quagmire  ? — lost  to  me  and 
gone. 

And  left  me  gazing  at  a  barren  board, 


And  a  lean  Order — scarce  return'd  a 
tithe— 

And  out  of  those  to  whom  the  vision 
came 

My  greatest  hardly  will  believe  he  saw  \ 

Another  hath  beheld  it  afar  off, 

And  leaving  human  wrongs  to  right" 
themselves, 

Cares  but  to  pass  into  the  silent  life. 

And  one  hath  had  the  vision  face  to 
face, 

And  now  his  chair  desires  him  here  in 
vain, 

However  they  may  crown  him  other- 
where. 

"  '  And  some  among  you  held,  that 

if  the  King 
Had   seen  the    sight  he  would  have 

sworn  the  vow  : 
Not  easily,  seeing  that   the  King  must 

guard 
That  which  he  rules,  and  is  but  as  the 

hind. 
To  whom  a  space   of   land  is  given  to 

plough, 
Who  may  not  wander  from  the  allotted 

field 
Before   his  work  be  done ;  but,  being 

done, 
Let  visions  of  the  night  or  of  the  day 
Come,  as  they  will ;  and   many  a  time 

they  come. 
Until  this  earth  he  walks  on  seems  not 

earth. 
This  light  that  strikes  his  eyeball   is 

not  light, 
This  air  that  smites  his  forehead  is  not 

air 
But  vision — yea,  his  very  hands  and 

feet— 
In  moments  when  he  feels  he  cannot 

die. 
And  knows  himself  no  vision  to  him- 
self, 
Nor  the  high  God  a  vision,  nor  that 

One 
Who  rose  again ;  ye  have  seen  what  ye 

have  seen.' 

"  So  spake  the  king :  I  knew  not  atf 
he  meant." 


422 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 

King  Arthur  made  new  knights  to 

fill  the  gap 
Left  by  the  Holy  Quest ;  and  as  he 

sat 
In  hall  at  old  Caerleon,  the  high  doors 
Were  softly   sunder'd,  and  thro'  those 

a  youth, 
Pelleas,  and  the  sweet  smell  of  the  fields 
Past,  and   the    sunshine   came    along 

with  him. 

"  Make   me    thy   knight,  because    I 

know,  Sir  King, 
All  that  belongs  to  knighthood,  and  I 

love." 
Such  was  his  cry ;  for  having  heard  the 

King 
Had  let  proclaim  a  tournament — the 

prize 
A  golden  circlet  and  a  knightly  sword, 
Full  fain  had  Pelleas  for  his  lady  won 
The   golden    circlet,   for    himself   the 

sword : 
And  there  were  those  who  knew  him 

near  the  King 
And   promised  for   him  :  and   Arthur 

made  him  knight. 

And  this  new  knight.  Sir  Pelleas  of 

the  isles — 
But  lately  come  to  his  inheritance. 
And  lori  of  many  a  barren  isle   was 

he- 
Riding  at  noon,  a  day  or  twain  before. 
Across  the  forest  call'd  of  Dean,  to 

find 
Caerleon  and  the  King,  had  felt  the 

sun 
Beat  like  fi  strong  knight  on  his  helm, 

and  reel'd 
Almost  to  falling  from  his  horse  ;  but 

saw 
Near    him  a  mound  of    even-sloping 

side, 
"Whereon    a  hundred  stately  beeches 

grew, 
And  here  and  there  great  hollies  under 

them. 
But  for  a  mile  all   round  was  open 

space, 


And  fern  and  heath:  and  slowly  Pel* 

leas  drew 
To  that  dim  day,  then  binding  his  good 

horse 
To  a  tree,  cast  himself  down ;  and  as 

he  lay 
At   random   looking   over    the  brown 

earth 
Thro'  that   green-glooming   twilight  of 

the  grove, 
It  seem'd  to  Pelleas  that  the  fern  with- 
out 
Burnt  as  a  living  fire  of  emeralds, 
So  that  his  eyes  were  dazzled  looking 

at  it. 
Then  o'er  it  crost  the  dimness   of  a 

•  cloud 
Floating,  and  once  the  shadow  of  a  bird 
Flying,  and  then  a  fawn  ;  and  his   eyes 

closed. 
And  since  he  loved  all  maidens,  but 

no  maid 
In  special,   half  awake   he  whispcr'd, 

"  Where  ? 
O   where .''  I   love   thee,   tho'  I   know 

thee  not. 
For  fair  thou  art  and  pure  as  Guine- 
vere, 
And  I  will  make  thee  with  my  spear 

and  sword 
As  famous — O  my   queen,   my  Guine- 
vere, 
For  I,  will  be  thine  Arthur  when  we 

meet." 
Suddenly  waken'd  with  a  sound    of 

talk 
And  laughter  at  the  limit  of  the  wood, 
And  glancing  thro'  the  hoary  boles,  he 

saw. 
Strange  as  to   some  old  prophet  might 

have  seem'd 
A  vision  hovering  on  a  sea  of  fire. 
Damsels  in  divers  colors  like  the  cloud 
Of  sunset  and  sunrise,  and  all  of  them 
On  horses,  and  the  horses  richly  trapt 
Breast-high     in    that    bright    line     of 

bracken  stood  : 
And  all  the  damsels  talk'd  confusedly, 
And  one   was  pointing  this  way,  and 

one  that. 
Because  the  way  was  lost. 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


423 


And  Pelleas  rose, 
And  loosed  his  horse,  and  led  him  to 

the  light. 
There  she  that  seem'd  the  chief  among 

them  said, 
"  In  happy  time  behold  our  pilot-star  ! 
Youth,  we  are  damsels-errant,  and  we 

ride, 
Arm'd  as  ye   see,  to  tilt  against  the 

knights 
There  at  Caerleon,  but  have  lost  our 

way: 

right  ?  to  left  ?  straight  forward  ? 

back  again  ? 
Which  ?  tell  us  quickly." 

And  Pelleas  gazing  thought, 
**  Is  Guinevere  herself  so  beautiful .'' " 
For  large  her  violet  eyes  look'd,  and 

her  bloom 
A    rosy    dawn    kindled    in    stainless 

heavens. 
And  round  her  limbs,  mature  in  woman- 
hood. 
And  slender  was  her  hand  and  small 

her  shape. 
And  but  for    those    large    eyes,   the 

haunts  of  scorn, 
She  might  have  seem'd  a  toy  to  trifle 

with, 
And  pass  and    care  no  more.      But 

while  he  gazed 
The  beauty  of  her  flesh  abash'd  the 

boy. 
As  tho'  it  were  the  beauty  of  her  soul : 
For  as  the  base  man,  judging  of  the 

good. 
Puts  his  own  baseness  in  him  by  de- 
fault 
Of  will  and  nature,  so  did  Pelleas  lend 
All  the  young  beauty  of  his  own  soul 

to  hers. 
Believing  her ;  and  when  she  spake  to 

him, 
Stammer'd,  and  could  not  make  her  a 

reply. 
For  out  of  the  waste  islands  had  he 

come, 
Where  saving  his  own  sisters  he  had 

known 
Scarce  any  but  the  women  of  his  isles. 


Rough  wives,  that  laugh'd  and  scream'd 

against  the  gulls, 
Makers  of  nets,  and  living  from  the 
sea. 

Then  with  a  slow  smile  turn'd  the 

lady  round 
And  look'd  upon  her  people ;  and  as 

when 
A  stone  is  flung  into  some  sleeping 

tarn, 
The  circle  widens  till  it  lip  the  marge, 
Spread   the   slow  smile   thro'  all  her 

company. 
Three  knights  were  thereamong;  and 

they  too  smiled, 
Scorning   him;  for  the  lady  was  Et- 

tarre. 
And  she  was  a  great  lady  in  her  land. 

Again  she  said,  *'  O  wild  and  of  the 

woods, 
Knowest  thou  not  the  fashion  of  our 

speech  ? 
Or  have  the  Heavens  but  given  thee  a 

fair  face. 
Lacking  a  tongue  ? " 

"  O  damsel,"  answer'd  heg 
**I  woke  from  dreams;    and    comin, 

out  of  gloom 
Was  dazzled  by  the  sudden  light,  and 

crave 
Pardon  :  but  will  ye  to  Caerleon  "i    I 
Go  likewise :  shall  I  lead  you  to  the 

King  ?  " 

"  Lead  then,"  she  said  ;  and  thro'  the 

woods  they  went. 
And  while  they  rode,  the  meaning  in 

his  eyes, 
His  tenderness  of  manner,  and  chaste 

awe, 
His  broken  utterances    and  bashful- 

ness, 
Were  all  a  burden  to  her,  and  in  her 

heart 
She   mutter'd,  "  I   have  lighted  on  a 

fool, 
Raw,  yet  so  stale  I "  but  since  her  mind 

was  bent 


434 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


On  hearing,  after  trumpet  blown,  her 

name 
And  title,  "  Queen  of  Beauty,"  in  the 

lists 
Cried — and  beholding  him  so  strong, 

she  thought 
That   peradventure   he   will   fight  for 

me, 
And  win  the  circlet :  therefore  flatter'd 

him. 
Being  so  gracious,   that  he  wellnigh 

deem'd 
His  wish  by  hers  was  echo'd ;  and  her 

knights 
And  all  her  damsels  too  were  gracious 

to  him, 
For  she  was  a  great  lady. 

And  when  they  reach'd 
Carleton,  ere  they  past  to  lodging,  she, 
Taking  his  hand,  "  O  the  strong  hand," 

she  said, 
**  See !   look  at  mine !  but  wilt    thou 

fight  for  me. 
And  win  me  this  fine  circlet,  Pelleas) 
That  I  may  love  thee  ?  " 

Then  his  helpless  heart 
Leapt,  and  he  cried,  "  Ay  !  wilt  thou  if 

I  win  ? " 
**  Ay,  that  will  I,"  she  answer'd,  and 

she  laugh'd. 
And  straitly  nipt  the  hand,  and  flung  it 

from  her ; 
Then    glanced  askew  at  those  three 

knights  of  hers, 
Till  all  her  ladies  laugh'd  along  with 

her. 

*' O  happy  world,"  thought  Pelleas, 

"all,  meseems, 
Are  happy ;  I  the   happiest  of  them 

all." 
Nor  slept  that  night  for  pleasure  in 

his  blood. 
And  green  wood-ways  and  eyes  among 

the  leaves  ; 
Then  being  on  the  morrow  knighted, 

sware 
To  love  one  only,  and  as  he    came, 

away, 


The  men  who  met  him  rounded  on 

their  heels 
And  wonder'd  after  him,  because  his 

face 
Shone  like  the  countenance  of  a  priest 

of  old 
Against  the  flame  about  a  sacrifice 
Kindled  by  fire  from  heaven :  so  glad 

was  he. 

Then  Arthur  made  vast  banquets, 
and  strange  knights 

From  the  four  winds  came  in  and 
each  one  sat, 

Tho'  served  with  choice  from  air,  land, 
stream,  and  sea, 

Oft  in  mid-i)anquet  measuring  with  his 
eyes 

His  neighbor's  make  and  might :  and 
Pelleas  look'd 

Noble  among  the  noble,  for  he  dream'd 

His  lady  loved  him,  and  he  knew  him- 
self 

Loved  of  the  King :  and  him  his  new- 
made  knight 

Worshipt,  whose  lightest  whisper 
moved  him  more 

Than  all  the  ranged  reasons  of  the 
world. 

Then  blush'd  and  brake  the  morning 

of  the  jousts, 
And  this  was  call'd  "The  Tournament 

of  Youth:" 
For  Arthur,  loving  his  young  knight, 

withheld 
His  older  and  his  mightier  from  the 

lists. 
That  Pelleas  might  obtain  his  lady's 

love, 
Accordmg  to  her  promise,  and  remain 
Lord  of  the  tourney.    And  Arthur  had 

the  jousts 
Down  in  the  flat  field  by  the  shore  of 

Usk 
Holden :    the    gilded    parapets    were 

crown'd 
With  faces,  and  the  great  tower  fill'd 

with  eyes 
Up  to  the  summit,  and  the  trumpets 

blew. 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTA R RE. 


425 


There  all  day  long  Sir  Pelleas  kept  the 

field 
With  honor:  so  by  that  strong  hand 

of  his 
The   sword   and  golden    circlet  were 

achieved. 

Then  rang  the  shout  his  lady  loved : 

the  heat 
Of  pride  and  glory  fired  her  face ;  her 

eye 
Sparkled;  she  caught  the  circlet  from 

his  lance, 
And  there  before  the  people  crown'd 

herself  : 
So  for  the  last  time  she  was  gracious 

to  him. 

Then  cX  Caerleon  for  a  space — her 

look 
Bright  for  all  others,  cloudier  on  her 

knight — 
Linger'd  Ettarre:  and  seeing  Pelleas 

droop, 
Said  Guinevere,  "  We  marvel  at  thee 

much, 

0  damsel,  wearing  this  unsunny  face 
To  him  who  won  thee  glory ! "  and  she 

said, 
"Had  ye  not  held  your  Lancelot  in 

your  bower, 
My  Queen,  he  had  not  won."    Whereat 

the  Queen, 
As  one  whose  foot  is  bitten  by  an  ant, 
Glanced  down  upon  her,  turn'd  and 

went  her  way. 

But  after,  when  her  damsels,  and 

herself, 
And  those  three  knights  all  set  their 

faces  home, 
Sir   Pelleas  follow'd.     She  that  saw 

him  cried, 
"  Damsels— and  yet  I  should  be  shamed 

to  say  it — 

1  cannot  bide    Sir  Baby.     Keep   him 

back 
Among  yourselves.   Would  rather  that 

we  had 
Some  rough  old  knight  who  knew  the 

worldly  way, 


Albeit  grizzlier  than  a  bear,  to  ride 
And  jest  with :  take  him  to  you,  keep 

him  off. 
And  pamper  him  with  papmeat,  if  ye 

will, 
Old    milky  fables    of    the    wolf    and 

sheep. 
Such  as  the  wholesome  mothers  tell 

their  boys. 
Nay,  should  ye  try  him  with  a  merry 

one 
To  find  his  mettle,  good :  and  if  he  fly 

us. 
Small   matter  1    let  him."      This    the 

damsels  heard, 
And  mindful  of  her  small  and  cruel 

hand, 
They,   closing    round    him    thro'   the 

journey  home. 
Acted  her  hest,  and  always  from  her 

side  [vice, 

Restrain'd  him  with  all  manner  of  de- 
So  that  he  could  not  come  to  speech 

with  her. 
And  when  she  gain'd  her   castle,  up* 

sprang  the  bridge, 
Down  rang  the  grate  of  iron  thro'  the 

groove. 
And  he  was  left  alone  in  open  field. 

"  These  be  the  ways  of  ladies,"  Pel 
leas  thought, 

**  To  those  who  love  them,  trials  of 
our  faith. 

Yea,  let  her  prove  me  to  the  utter- 
most, 

For  loyal  to  the  uttermost  am  I." 

So  made  his  moan ;  and,  darkness  fall- 
ing, sought 

A  priory  not  far  off,  there  lodged,  but 
rose 

With  morning  every  day,  and  moist  or 
dry 

Full-arm'd  upon  his  charger  all  day 
long 

Sat  by  the  walls,  and  no  one  open'd  to 
him. 

And  this  persistence  turn'd  her  scorn 
to  wrath. 
Then   calling   her   three   knights,  she 
charged  them,  "  Out ! 


426 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


And  drive  him  from  the  walls."     And 

out  they  came, 
But  Pelleas  overthrew  them  as   they 

dash'd 
Against  him  one  by  one ;  and  these  re- 

turn'd, 
But  still  he  kept  his  watch  beneath  the 

wall. 

Thereon  her  wrath  became  a  hate ; 

and  once, 
A  week  beyond,  while  walking  on  the 

walls 
With  her  three  knights,  she   pointed 

downward,  "  Look, 
He  haunts  me — I  cannot  breathe — be- 
sieges me ; 
Down !  strike  him !  put  my  hate  into 

your  strokes. 
And  drive  him  from  my  walls."     And 

down  they  went. 
And  Pelleas  overthrew  them   one  by 

one; 
And  from  the  tower  above  him  cried 

Ettarre, 
"  Bind  him,  and  bring  him  in." 

He  heard  her  voice ; 

Then  let  the  strong  hand,  which  had 
overthrown 

Her  minion-knights,  by  those  he  over- 
threw 

Be  bounden  straight,  and  so  they 
brought  him  in. 

Then  when  he  came  before  Ettarre, 

the  sight 
Of  her  rich  beauty  made  him  at  one 

glance 
More  bondsman  in  his  heart  than  in 

his  bonds. 
Yet  with  good  cheer  he  spake,  "  Be- 
hold me,  Lady, 
A  prisoner,  and  the  vassal  of  thy  will ; 
And   if  thou   keep  me  in  thy  donjon 

here. 
Content  am  I  so  that  I  see  thy  face 
But  once  a  day :  for  I  have  sworn  my 

vows, 
And  thou  hast  given  thy  promise,  and 

I  know 


That  all  these  pains  are  trials  of  mj 

faith, 
And  that  thyself  when  thou  hast  seen 

me  strain'd 
And    sifted    to    the    utmost,   wilt    at 

length 
Yield  me  thy  love  and  know  me  for 

thy  knight." 

Then  she  began  to  rail  so  bitterly. 
With  all  her  damsels,  he  was  stricken 

mute; 
But  when  she  mock'd  his  vows  and  the 

great  King, 
Lighted  on  words :  "  For  pity  of  thine 

own  self. 
Peace,  Lady,  peace :  is  he  not  thine  and 

mine    " 
"  Thou  fool,"  she  said,  "  I  never  heard 

his  voice 
But  long'd  to  break  away.     Unbind 

him  now. 
And  thrust  him  out  of  doors ;  for  save 

he  be 
Fool   to  the  midmost  marrow  of  his 

bones, 
He  will  return  no  more.'*    And  those, 

her  three, 
Laugh'd,  and  unbound,  and  thrust  him 

from  the  gate. 

And  after  this,  a  week  beyond,  again 
She  caird    them,  saying,   "There  he 

watches  yet. 
There  like  a  dog  before  his  master's 

door ! 
Kick'd,  he  returns :  do  ye  not  hate  him, 

ye  ? 
Ye  know  yourselves :  how  can  ye  bide 

at  peace. 
Affronted  with  his  fulsome  innocence  ? 
Are  ve  but  creatures  of  the  board  and 

bed. 
No  men  to  strike  ?  fall  on  him  all  at 

once. 
And  if  ye  slay  him  I  reck  not :  if  ye  fai) 
Give  ye   the  slave   mine  order  to  be 

bound. 
Bind  him  as  heretofore,  and  bring  him 

in:  .     ». 

It  may  be  ye  shall  slay  him  m  hii 
bonds." 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


427 


She   spake  \    and   at   her   will   they 
couch'd  their  spears, 
Three  against  one  :  and  Gawain  passing 

by, 

Bound  upon  solitary  adventure,  saw 
Low  down  beneath  the  shadow  of  those 

towers 
A  villany,   three  to  one  :  and  thro'  his 

heart 
The  fire  of  honor  and  all  noble  deeds 
Flash'd,  and  he  call'd,  "  I  strike  upon 

thy  side — 
the   caitiffs!"    "Nay,"   said   Pelleas, 

"  but  forbear ; 
He  needs  no  aid  who  doth  his   ladv's 

will." 

So   Gawain,  looking   at   the  villany 

done, 
Forbore,  but  in  his  heat  and  eagerness 
Trembled   and   quiver'd,    as   the   dog, 

withheld 
A  moment  from  the  vermin  that  he  sees 
Before  him  shivers,  ere  he  springs  and 

kills.  ^ 

And  Pelleas  overthrew  them,  one  to 
three ; 

And  they  rose  up,  and  bound,  and 
brought  him  in. 

Then  first  her  anger,  leaving  Pelleas, 
burn'd 

Full  on  her  knights  in  many  an  evil 
name 

Of  craven,  weakling,  and  thrice-beaten 
hound : 

"  Yet,  take  him,  ye  that  scarce  are  fit  to 
touch, 

Far  less  to  bind,  your  victor,  and  thrust 
him  out, 

And  let  who  will  release  him  from  his 
bonds. 

And  if  he  comes  again" — there  she 
brake  short; 

And  Pelleas  answer'd,  "Lady,  for  in- 
deed 

I  loved  you  and  I  deem'd  you  beauti- 
ful, 

I  cannot  brook  to  see  your  beauty 
marr'd 

Tiiro'  evil  spite  ;  and  if  y©  love  me  not, 


I  cannot  bear  to  dream  you  so  foi sworn: 
I  had  liefer  ye  were  worthy  of  my  love, 
Than  to  be  loved  again  of  you — fare- 

well  ; 
And  tho'  yc  kill   my  hope,  not  yet  my 

love. 
Vex  not  yourself :  ye  will  not  see  me 

more." 

"While  thus  he  spake,  she  gazed  upon 

the  man 
Of  princely  bearing,  tho'  in  bonds,  and 

thought, 
"  Why  have  I    push'd  him  from   me  ? 

this  man  loves, 
If  love  there  be  :  yet  him  I  loved  not. 

Why? 
I  deem'd  him  fool  ?  yea,  so  }  or  that  in 

him 
A  something — was  it  nobler  than  my- 
self ?— 
Seem'd  my  reproach  ,?     He  is  not  of  my 

kind. 
He  could  not  love  me,  did  he  know  me 

well. 
Nay,  let  him  go — and  quickly."    And 

her  knights 
Laugh'd  not,  but  thrust  him  bounden 

out  of  door. 

Forth  sprang  Gawain,  and  loosed  him 

from  his  bonds. 
And  flung   them   o'er   the   walls ;  and 

afterward 
Shaking  his  hands,  as   from   a  lazar's 

rag, 
"  Faith  of  my  body,"  he  said,  "  and  art 

thou  not — 
Yea,  thou  art  he,  whom  late  our  Arthur 

made 
Knight  of  his  table ;  yea  and  he  that 

won 
The  circlet .''  wherefore  hast  thou  so  de 

famed 
Thy  brotherhood  in  me  and  all  the  rest, 
As  let  these  caitiffs  on  thee  work  their 

will  ? " 

And     Pelleas    answer'd,    "  O,  their 
wills  are  hers 
For  whom  I  won  the  circlet  j  and  mine, 
hers. 


428 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE, 


Thus  to  be  bounden,  so  to  see  her  face, 

Marr'd  tho'  it  be  with  spite  and  mock- 
ery now, 

Other  than  when  I  found  her  in  the 
woods ; 

And  tho'  she  hath  me  bounden  but  in 
spite, 

And  all  to  flout  me,  when  they  bring 
me  in, 

Let  me  be  bounden,  I  shall  see  her 
face; 

Else  must  I  die  thro'  mine  unhappi- 
ness." 

And  Gawain  answer'd  kindly  tho'   in 

scorn, 
"  Why,  let  my  lady  bind  me  if  She  will, 
And  let  my  lady  beat  me  if  she  will : 
But  an  she  send  her  delegate  to  thrall 
These  fighting  hands   of  mine — Christ 

kill  me  then 
But  I   will   slice  him  handless  by  the 

wrist, 
And  let  my  lady  sear  the  stump  for  him, 
Howl  as  he  may.  But  hold  me  for  your 

friend : 
Conae,  ye  know  nothing  :  here  I  pledge 

my  troth. 
Yea,  by  the  honor  of  the  Table  Round, 
1  will  be  leal  to  thee  and  work  thy  work. 
And  tame  thy  jailing  princess   to  thine 

hand. 
Lend  me  thine  horse  and  arms,  and  I 

will  say 
That  I  have   slain  thee.     She  will   let 

me  in 
To  hear  the  manner  of  thy   fight  and 

fall; 
Then,  when  I  come  within  her  counsels, 

then 
From  prime  to  vespers  will  I  chant  thy 

praise 
As   prowest  knight  and  truest  lover, 

more 
Than  any  have  sung  the  living,  till  she 
^     long 

To  have  thee  back  in  lusty  life  again, 
Not  to  be  bound,  save  by  white  bonds 

and  warm. 
Dearer  than  freedom.    Wherefore  now 

thy  horse 


And  armor  :  let  me  go  :  be  comforted^ 
Give  me  three  days  to  melt  her  fancy, 

and  hope 
The  third  night  hence  will  bring  thee 

news  of  gold." 

Then  Pelleas  lent  his  horse  and  all  his 

arms. 
Saving  the  goodly  sword,  his  prize,  and 

took 
Gawain's,  and  said,  "  Betray   me   not, 

but  hell? — 
Art  thou  not  he  whom  men  call  light-of- 

love  .? "  ^ 
"  Ay,"   said  Gawain,  "  for  women  be 

so  light." 
Then  bounded   forward   to   the   castle 

walls. 
And  raised  a  bugle   hanging  from  his 

neck, 
And  winded  it,  and  that  so  musically 
That  all  the  old  echoes  hidden  in  the 

wall 
Rang  out  like  hollow  woods  at  hunting 

tide.  * 


Up   ran   a   score   of  damsels  to  th? 

tower  ; 
"  Avaunt,"  they  cried,  *'  our  lady  loves 

thee  not." 
But  Gawain  lifting  up  his  visor  said, 
"Gawain   am   I,    Gawain   of    Arthur's 

court, 
And  I  have  slain  this  Pelleas  whom  ye 

hate  : 
Behold   his  horse   and  armor.     Open 

gate, 
And  I  will  make  you  merry." 

And  down  they  ran, 
Her  damsels,  crying  to  their  lady,  "Lo! 
Pelleas   is   dead — he   told  us,  he  that 

hath 
His  horse  and  armor  :  will  ye  let  him 

in? 
He  slew  him  !  Gawain,  Gawain  of  the 

court. 
Sir  Gawain — there  he  waits  below  the 

wall, 
Blowing  his  bugle  as  who  should  say 

him  nay." 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


429 


And  so,  leave  given,  straight  on  thro' 

open  door 
Rode  Gawain,  whom  she  greeted  cour- 
teously. 
«  Dead,  is  it  so  ?  "  she   ask'd.     "  Ay, 

ay,"  said  he, 
"And  oft   in   dying   cried   upon  your 

name." 
"  Pity  on  him,"  she  answer'd,  "  a  good 

knight, 
But    never   let  me   bide   one  hour  at 

peace." 
"  Ay,"  thought  Gawain,  "and ye  be  fair 

enow  : 
But  I  to  your  dead  man  have  given  my 

troth, 
That  whom  ye  loathe  him  will  I  make 

you  love." 

So  these  three  days,  aimless  about 

the  land, 
Lost  in  a  doubt,  Pelleas  wandering 
Waited,  until  the  third  night  brought  a 

moon, 
With  promise  of  large  light  on  woods 

and  ways. 

The  night  was  hot ;  he  could  not  rest , 

but  rode 
Ere  midnight  to  her  walls,  and  bound 

his  horse 
Hard  by  the  gates.    Wide  open  were 

the'gates. 
And  no  watch  kept ;  and  in  thro'  these 

he  past. 
And  heard  but  his  own  steps,  and  his 

own  heart  [self, 

Beating,  for  nothing  moved  but  his  own 
And  his  own  shadow.     Then  he  crost 

the  court. 
And  saw  the  postern  portal  also  wide 
Yawning  ;  and  up  aslope  of  garden,  all 
Of  roses  white  and  red,  and  wild  ones 

mixt 
And  overgrowing  them,  went   on,  and 

found. 
Here  too,  all  hush'd  below  the  mellow 

moon. 
Save  that  one  rivulet  from  a  tiny  cave 
Came  lightening  downward,  and  so  sfJilt 

itself 
Among  the  roses,  and  was  lost  again. 


Then  was  he  ware  that  white  pavil- 
ions rose, 

Three  from  the  bushes,  gilden-peakt : 
in  one. 

Red  after  revel,  droned  her  lurdan 
knights 

Slumbering,  and  their  three  squires 
across  their  feet : 

In  one,  their  malice  on  the  placid  lip 

Froz'n  by  sweet  sleep,  four  of  her  dam- 
sels lay : 

And  in  the  third,  the  circlet  of  the 
jousts 

Bound  on  her  brow,  were  Gawain  and 
Ettarre. 

Back,  as  a  hand  that  pushes  thro'  the 

leaf 
To  find  a  nest  and  feels  a  snake,  he 

drew  : 
Back,  as  a  coward  slinks  from  what  he 

fears 
To  cope  with,  or  a  traitor  proven,  or 

hound 
Beaten,  did  Pelleas  in  an  utter  shame 
Creep  with  his  shadow  thro'  the  court 

again. 
Fingering  at  his  sword  handle  until  he 

stood 
There  on  the  castle-bridge  once  more, 

and  thought, 
"  I  will  go  back,  and  slay  them  where 

they  lie." 

And  so  went  back,  and  seeing  them 

yet  in  sleep 
Said,  "  Ye,  that  so  dishallow  the  holy 

sleep, 
Your  sleep  is  death,"    and  drew  the 

sword,  and  thought, 
"What!   slay  a  sleeping  knight.'   the 

King  hath  bound 
And  sworn  me  to  this  brotherhood ;  " 

again,  1 

"  Alas  that  ever  a  knight  should  be  so 

false." 
Then  turn'd,  and  so  return'd,  and  groan- 
ing laid 
The  naked  sword  athwart  th«ir  naked 

throats, 
There  left  it,  and  them  sleeping;  and 

she  lay. 


430 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


The  circlet   of  the  tourney  round  her 

brows, 
And  the  sword  of  the  tourney  across  her 

throat. 

And  forth  he  past,  and  mounting  on 

his  horse 
Stared  at  her  towers  that,  larger  than 

themselves 
In  their  own  darkness,  throng'd  into 

the  moon. 
Then  crush'd  the  saddle  with  his  thighs, 

and  clench'd 
His  hands,  and  madden'd  with  himself 

and  moan'd : 

"  Would  they  have  risen  against  me 

in  their  blood 
At  the  last  day  ?  I  might  have  answer'd 

them 
Even  before  high  God.    O  towers  so 

strong, 
So  solid,  would  that  even  while  I  gaze 
The  crack  of  earthquake  shivering  to 

your  base 
Split  you,  and  Hell  burst  up  your  har- 
lot roofs 
Bellowing,  and  charr'd  you  thro'  and 

thro'  within, 
Black  as  the  harlot's  heart — hollow  as 

a  skull ! 
Let  the  fierce  east  scream  thro'  your 

eyelet-holes, 
And  whirl  the  dust  of  harlots  round 

and  round 
In  dung  and  nettles  I  hiss,    snake — I 

saw  him  there — 
Let  the  fox  bark,  let  the  wolf  yell.  Who 

yells 
Here  in  the  still  sweet  summer  night, 

butl- 
I,  the  poor  Pelleas  whom  she  call'd 

her  fool  "i 
Fool,  beast — he,   she,   or    I  "i    myself 

most  fool ; 
Beast  too,  as  lacking  human  wit — dis- 
graced, 
Dishonor'd  all  for  trial  of  true  love — 
Love } — we    be    all    alike ;    only    the 

king 
Hath    made    us  fools    and  liars.     O 

noble  vows  I 


0  great  and  sane  and  simple  race  of 

brutes 
That  own  no  lust  because  they  have 

no  law ! 
For  why  should  I  have  loved  her  to 

my  shame  "i 

1  loathe  her,  as  I   loved  her  to  my 

shame. 
I   never  loved  her,  I  but  lusted  for 

her— 
Away — " 

He  dash'd  the  rowel  into  his  horse, 
And  bounded  forth  and  vanish'd  thro' 
the  night. 

Then  she,  that  felt  the  cold  touch  on 

her  throat, 
Awaking  knew  the  sword,  and  turn'd 

herself 
To  Gawain  :  "  Liar,  for  thou  hast  not 

slain 
This  Pelleas !  here  he  stood  and  might 

have  slain 
Me  and  thyself."    And  he   that  tells 

the  tale 
Says  that  her  ever-veering  fancy  turn'd 
To  Pelleas,  as  the  one  true  knight  on 

earth. 
And  only  lover ;  and  thro'  her  love  her 

life 
Wasted  and  pined,  desiring  him  in 

vain. 

But  he  by  wild  and  way,  for  half  the 

night, 
And  over  hard  and  soft,  striking  the 

sod 
From  out  the  soft,  the  spark  from  off 

the  hard. 
Rode  till  the  star  above  the  wakening 

sun, 
Beside  that  tower  where  Percivale  was 

cowl'd, 
Glanced  from  the  rosy  forehead  of  the 

dawn. 
For  so  the  words  were  flash'd  into  his 

heart 
He   knew  not  whence   or  wherefore : 

"  O  sweet  star. 
Pure   on  the  virgin  forehead  of  th« 

dawn." 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE, 


431 


And  there  he   would   have   wept,  but 

felt  his  eyes 
Harder  and  drier  than  a  fountain  bed 
In  summer:  thither  came  the  village 

girls 
And  linger' d  talking,  and  they  come  no 

more 
Till  the   sweet   heavens  have  fill'd  it 

from  the  heights 
Again  with  living  waters  in  the  change 
Of  seasons  :  hard  his  eyes ;  harder  his 

heart 
Seem'd ;  but  so  weary  were  his  limbs, 

that  he, 
Gasping,  "  Of  Arthur's  hall  am  I,  but 

here. 
Here  let  me  rest  and  die,"  cast  himself 

down, 
And  gulf'd  his  griefs  in  inmost  sleep  ; 

so  lay. 
Till  shaken  by  a  dream,  that  Gawain 

fired 
The  hall  of  Merlin,  and  the  morning 

star 
Reel'd  in  the  smoke,  brake  into  flame, 

and  fell. 

He  woke,  and  being  ware  of  some 
one  nigh. 

Set  hands  upon  him,  as  to  Jear  him, 
crying 

*•  False !  and  I  held  thee  pure  as  Gui- 
nevere." 

But  Percivale  stood  near  him  and 
replied, 

"Am  I  but  false  as  Guinevere  is  pure  ? 

Or  art  thou  mazed  with  dreams?  or 
being  one 

Of  our  free-spoken  Table  hast  not 
heard 

That  Lancelot " — there  he  check'd  him- 
self and  paused. 

Then  fared  it  with    Sir  Pelleas   as 

with  one 
Who  gets  a  wound  in  battle,  and  the 

sword 
That  made  it  plunges  thro'  the  wound 

again 
ft.nd  pricks  it  deeper :  and  he  shrank 

and  wail'd. 


**  Is  the  Queen  false  ? "  and  Percivale 

was  mute. 
"  Have  any  of  our  Round  Table  held 

their  vows  ?  " 
And    Percivale    made    answer  not  a 

word. 
"Is  the  king  true.?"     "The  king!" 

said  Percivale. 
"  "Why  then  let  men  couple   at   once 

with  wolves. 
What!  art  thou  mad?" 

But  Pelleas,  leaping  up, 
Ran   thro'  the   doors   and  vaulted  on 

his  horse 
And  fled  :  small  pity  upon  his  horse 

had  he. 
Or  on   himself,  or  any,  and  when  he 

met 
A  cripple;  one  that  held  a  hand  for 

alms — 
Hunch'd  as  he  was,  and  like  an  old 

dwarf  elm 
That  turns  its  back  on  the  salt  blast, 

the  boy 
Paused  not  but  overrode  him,  shouting, 

"  False, 
And  false  with  Gawain!"  and  so  left 

him  bruised 
And  batter'd,  and  fled  on,  and  hill  and 

wood 
Went  ever  streaming  by  him  till  the 

gloom, 
That  follows   on   the   turning   of  the 

world, 
Darken'd    the     common     path :      he 

twitch'd  the  reins. 
And  made  his  beast  that  better  knew 

it,  swerve 
Now  off  it  and  now  on  ;  but  when  he 

saw 
High  up  in  heaven  the  hall  that  Merlin 

built, 
Blackening     against    the     dead-green 

stripes  of  Even, 
"  Black  nest  of  rats,"  he  groan' d,  "  ye 

build  too  high." 

Not  long  thereafter  from  the  city 
gates 
Issued  Sir  Lancelot  riding  airily, 


432 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


Warm  with  a  gracious  parting   from 

the  Queen, 
Peace   at  his  heart,  and  gazing  at  a 

star 
And  marvelling  what  it  was :  on  whom 

the  boy,  (grass 

Across    the    silent    seeded    meadow- 
Borne,  clash'd :  and   Lancelot,  saying, 

*'  What  name  hast  thou 
That   ridest   here   so    blindly  and   so 

hard  ? » 
"I   have   no  name,"  he   shouted,  "a 

scourge  am  I, 
To  lash    the   treasons  of    the   Table 

Round." 
"  Yea,  but  thy  name  ?"    "I  have  many 

names,"  he  cried ; 
"  I  am  wrath  and  shame  and  hate  and 

evil  fame,  [blast 

And  like  a  poisonous  wind  I  pass  to 
And  blaze  the  crime  of  Lancelot  and 

the  Queen." 
"  First  over  me,"  said  Lancelot,  "  shalt 

thou  pass." 
"Fight,    therefore,"   yell'd  the  other, 

and  either  knight 
Drew   back   a   space,  and   when   they 

closed,  at  once 
The  weary  steed  of  Pelleas  floundering 

flung 
His   rider,  who  called   out  from  the 

dark  field, 
"  Thou  art  false  as  Hell :  slay  me  :  I 

have  no  sword." 
Then    Lancelot,   "  Yea,   between    thy 

lips — and  sharp  ; 
But    here   will    I    disedge    it  by   thy 

death." 
*  Slay  then,"  he  shriek'd,  "  my  will  is 

to  be  slain." 
And  Lancelot,  with  his  heel  upon  the 

fall'n. 
Rolling  his  eyes,  a  moment  stood,  then 

spake : 
"Rise,  weakling;  lam  Lancelot;  say 

thy  say." 

And  Lancelot  slowly  rode  his  war- 
horse  back 
To  Camelot,  and  Sir  Pelleas  in  brief 
while 


Caught  his  unbroken  limbs  from  the 

dark  field, 
And  follow'd  to  the  city.     It  chanced 

that  both 
Brake    into   hall   together,   worn   and 

pale. 
There  with  her  knights  and  dames  was 

Guinevere. 
Full  wonderingly  she  gazed  on  Lan- 
celot 
So  soon  return'd,  and  then  on  Pelleas, 
Him  who  had  not  greeted  her,  but  cast 

himself 
Down    on    a    bench,    hard-breathing, 

"  Have  ye  fought  ? " 
She    ask'd     of     Lancelot.     "Ay,    my 

Queen,"  he  said. 
"  And   thou    hast   overthrown   him  ? " 

"  Ay,  my  Queen." 
Then  she,  turning  to  Pelleas,  "  O  young 

knight. 
Hath  the  great  heart  of  knighthood  in 

thee  fail'd 
So  far  thou  canst  not  bide,  unfrowardly, 
A   fall  from  him  .<* "  Then,  for  he  an- 

swer'd  not, 
"  Or  hast  thou  other  griefs  .''    If  I,  the 

Queen, 
May  help  them,  loose  thy  tongue,  and 

let  me  know." 
But  Pelleas  lifted  up  an  eye  so  fierce 
She  quail'd  ;  and  he,  hissing  "  I  have 

no  sword," 
Sprang  from  the  door  into  the  dark. 

The  Queen 
Look'd  hard  upon  her  lover,  he  on 

her ; 
And  each  foresaw  the  dolorous  day  to 

be: 
And  all  talk  died,  as  in  a  grove  all 

song 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  some  bird  of 

prey. 
Then  a  long  silence   came   upon  the 

hall. 
And  Modred  thought,  "The  time  u 

hard  at  hand." 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 


433 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 

That  story  which  the  bold  Sir  Be- 

divere, 
First  made  and  latest  left  of  all  the 

knights, 
Told,  when  the  man  was  no  more  than 

a  voice 
In  the  white  winter  of  his  age,  to  those 
With  whom  he  dwelt,  new  faces,  other 

minds. 

Before  that  last  weird  battle  in  the 

west 
There     came     on     Arthur     sleeping, 

Gawain  kill'd 
In  Lancelot's  war,  the  ghost  of  Gawain 

blown 
Along  a  wandering  wind,  and  past  his 

ear 
Went  shrilling,  "Hollow,  hollow  all 

delight ! 
Hail,  king !  to-morrow  thou  shalt  pass 

away. 
Farewell !  there  is  an  isle  of  rest  for 

thee. 
And  I  am  blown  along  a  wandering 

wind, 
And    hollow,   hollow,   hollow  all   de- 
light." 
And   fainter   onward   like   wild    birds 

that  change  [way 

Their  season  in  the  night  and  wail  their 
From  cloud  to  cloud,  down  the  long 

wind  the  dream 
Shrill'd ;   but  in  going  mingled  with 

dim  cries 
Far  in   the  moonlit  haze  among  the 

hills, 
As  of  some  lonely  city  sack'd  by  night, 
When  all  is  lost,  and  wife  and  child 

with  wail 
Pass  to  new  lords ;  and  Arthur  woke 

and  caird, 
"  Who    spake  ?    A    dream.     O    light 

_  upon  the  wind. 
Thine,   Gawain,   was    the    voice — are 

these  dim  cries 
Thine.?  or  doth  all  that  haunts  the 

waste  and  wild 
Mourn,  knowing  it  will  go  along  with 

me?" 


This  heard   the   bold   Sir   Bedivere 

and  spake  : 
"  O  me,  my  king,  let  pass  whatever 

will, 
Elves,  and  the   harmless  glamour  of 

the  field  ; 
But  in  their  stead  thy  name  and  glory 

cling 
To  all  high  places  like  a  golden  cloud 
Forever  :  but  as  yet  thou  shalt  not 

pass. 
Light  was  Gawain  in  life,  and  light  in 

death 
Is   Gawain,  for  the  ghost  is  as  the 

man ; 
And  care  not  thou  for  dreams  from 

him,  but  rise — 
I  hear  the  steps  of  Modred  in  the  west. 
And  with  him  many  of  thy  people,  and 

knights 
Once  thine,  whom  thou  hast  loved,  but 

grosser  grown 
Than  heathen,  spitting  at  their  vows 

and  thee. 
Right  well  in  heart  they  know  thee  for 

the  King. 
Arise,  go  forth  and  conquer  as  of  old." 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Be- 
divere : 
"  Far  other  is  this  battle  in  the  west 
Whereto  we  move,  than  when  we  strove 

in  youth, 
And    thrust    the    heathen    from    the 

Roman  wall, 
And  shook  him  thro'  the   north.     Ill 

doom  is  mine 
To  war    against  my  people  and   my 

knights. 
The  king  who  fights  his  people  fights 

himself. 
And   they  my  knights,  who  loved  me 

once,  the  stroke 
That  strikes  them  dead  is  as  my  death 

to  me. 
Yet  let  us  hence,  and  find  or  feel  a 

way 
Thro'  this  blind  haze,  which  ever  since 

I  saw 
One  lying  in  the  dust  at  Almesbury, 
Hath  folded  in  the  passes  of  the  world." 


434 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR, 


Then  rose  the  King  and  moved  his 

host  by  night. 
And  ever  push'd  Sir  Modred,  league  by 

league, 
Back   to   the   sunset   bound   of   Lyon- 

nesse — 
A  land  of  old  upheaven  from  the  abyss 
By  fire,  to  sink  into  the  abyss  again  ; 
Where  fragments  of  forgotten  peoples 

dwelt. 
And  the   long  mountains  ended  in  a 

coast 
Of  ever-shifting  sand,  and  far  away 
The  phantom  circle  of  a  moaning  sea. 
There  the   pursuer  could  pursue    no 

more, 
And  he  that  fled  no    further  fly  the 

king ; 
And   there,   that   day  when  the  great 

light  of  heaven 
Burn'd  at  his  lowest  in  the  rolling  year, 
(3n   the  waste   sand  by  the  waste  sea 

they  closed. 
Nor  ever  yet  had  Arthur  fought  a  fight 
Like  this  last,  dim,  weird  battle  of  the 

west.  [sea : 

A  deathwhite  mist  slept  over  sand  and 
Whereof  the  chill,  to  him  who  breathed 

it,  drew 
Down  with  his  blood,  till  all  his  heart 

was  cold 
With    formless    fear;     and    ev'n     on 

Arthur  fell 
Confusion,  since  he   saw  not  whom  he 

fought, 
For  friend  and  foe  were  shadows  in  the 

mist. 
And  friend   slew  friend   not   knowing 

whom  he  slew : 
And  some  had  visions  out  of  golden 

youth, 
And  some    beheld   the    faces    of  old 

ghosts 
Look  in  upon   the  battle ;  and  in  the 

mist 
Was  many  a  noble  deed,  many  a  base, 
And  chance   and  craft  and  strength  in 

single  fights, 
And  ever  and  anon  with  host  to  host 
Shocks,  and  the  splintering  spear,  the 

hard  mail  hewn, 


Shield-breakings,     and    the    clash  ol 

brands,  the  crash 
Of  battleaxes  on  shatter'd  helms,  and 

shrieks 
After  the  Christ,  of  those  who  falling 

down 
Looked   up  for  heaven,  and  only  saw 

the  mist ; 
And  shouts  of  heathen  and  the  traitof 

knights, 
Oaths,    insult,   filth,     and    monstrous 

blasphemies. 
Sweat,  writhings,  anguish,  laboring   of 

the  lungs 
In  that  close  mist,  and  cryings  ior  the 

light, 
Moans  of  the  dying,  and  voices  of  the 

dead. 


Last,  as  by  some  one  death-bed  after 

wail 
Of  suffering,  silence   follows,  or  thro' 

death 
Or  deathlike  swoon,  thus  over  all  that 

shore. 
Save  for  some  whisper  of  the  seething 

seas, 
A  dead  hush  fell;  but  when  the  dolor- 
ous day 
Grew   drearier  toward  twilight  falling, 

came 
A  bitter  wind,  clear   from  the    North, 

and  blew 
The  mist  aside,  and  with  that  wind  the 

tide 
Rose,  and  the  pale  king  glanced  across 

the  field 
Of  battle :   but   no   man  was   moving 

there  ; 
Nor  any  cry  of  Christian  heard  thereon, 
Nor  yet  of  heathen  ;  only  the  wan  wave 
Break  in  among  dead  faces,  to  and  fro 
Swaying  the  helpless  hands,  and  up  and 

down 
Tumbling  the  hollow  helmets,  of  th< 

fallen. 
And   shiver'd   brands    that   once   hai 

fought  with  Rome. 
And  rolling  far  along  the  gloomy  shores 
The  voice  of  days  of  old  and  days  to  bei 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 


435 


Then    spake   King    Arthur   to    Sir 
Bedivere, 
And  whiter  than  the  mist  that  all  day 

long 
Had  held  the  field   of  battle  was   the 
•   King: 

"  Hearest  thou  this  great  voice   that 

shakes  the  world, 
And  wastes  the  narrow  realm  whereon 

we  move, 
And  beats  upon  the  faces  of  the  dead. 
My  dead,  as  tho'  they  had  not  died  for 

me? — 
O  Bedivere,  for  on  my  heart  hath  fall'n 
Confusion,  till  I  know  not  what  I  am, 
Nor  whence  I  am,  nor  whether  I  be 

king. 
Behold,   I  seem  but  king  among  the 

dead." 

Then  spake  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere : 

"  My  King, 
King  everywhere!     and  so  the   dead 

have  kings. 
There  also  will  I  worship  thee  as  king. 
Yet   still  thy  ^fe  is   whole,  and  still  I 

live 
Who  love  thee ;  but  who  hates  thee,  he 

that  brought 
The   heathen  back  among  us,  yonder 

stands, 
Modred,  unharm'd,  the  traitor  of  thine 

house." 

Then  spake   the   king:  "My    house 

hath  been  my  doom. 
But   call  not   thou  this   traitor   of   my 

house 
Who  hath  but  dwelt  beneath  one  roof 

with  me. 
My  house   are   rathe  •  they  who   sware 

my  vows. 
Yea,   even    while    the>    Vake    them, 

own'd  me  king. 
And  well  for  thee,  saying  in   my  dark 

hour, 
When   all   the  purport   of  my    throne 

hath  fail'd, 
'That  quick   or  dead  thou  boldest  me 

for  king. 


King  am  T,  whatsoever  be  their  cry; 
And  one  last  act  of  knighthood  shalt 

thou  see 
Yet,   ere  I  pass."     And   uttering   this 

the  king 
Made  at  the  man :  then  Moored  smote 

his  liege 
Hard    on    that  helm,   whicn  many   a 

heathen  sword 
Had  beaten  thin  ;  while  Arthur  at  one 

blow. 
Striking  the  last  stroke  with  Excalibur, 
Slew  him,  and  all  but  slain  himself,  he 

fell. 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle 

roll'd 
Among   the  mountains  by   the   winter 

sea; 
Until   King  Arthur's   Table,   man    by 

man, 
Had  fall'n  in  Lyonnesse   about   their 

lord, 
King     Arthur.       Then,     because     his 

wound  was  deep. 
The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him, 
And   bore  him   to  a  chapel   nigh   the 

field, 
A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross. 
That  stood  on  a  dark  strait  of  barren 

land  : 
On  one  side  lay  the  ocean,  and  on  one 
Lay  a  great  water,  and  the  moon  was 

full. 

Then  spake    King    Artlrur    to   Sir 

Bedivere  : 
"  The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 
The   goodliest   fellowship    of    famous 

knights 
Whereof  this  world  holds  record.  Such 

a  sleep 
They  sleep — the  men  I  loved.     I  think 

that  we 
Shall  never  more,  at  any  future  time. 
Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly 

deeds, 
Walking   about   the    gardens  and  tne 

halls 
Of  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  were. 
I  perish  by  this  people  which  I  made,—' 


436 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 


Tho*  Merlin  sware  that  I  should  come 
again 

To  rule  once  more  ;  but  let  what  will 
be,  be. 

I  axn  so  deeply  smitten  thro'  the  helm 

That  without  help  I  cannot  last  till 
morn. 

Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  Excali- 
bur, 

Which  was  my  pride :  for  thou  remem- 
ber est  how 

In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon, 
an  arm 

Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the 
lake, 

Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful, 

Holding  the  sword — and  how  I  row'd 
across  [king ; 

And  took  it,  and  have   worn  it,  like  a 

And,  wheresoever  I  am  sung  or  told 

In  after  time,  this  also  shall  be  known; 

But  now  delay  not:  take  Excalibur, 

And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle  mere: 

Watch  what  thou  seest,  and  lightly 
bring  me  word." 

To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 

vere: 
*  It  is  not  meet,  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee 

thus. 
Aidless,   alone,  and   smitten  thro'   the 

helm — 
A   little   thing  may  harm   a  wounded 

man; 
Yet  I  thy  hest  will  all  perform  at  full. 
Watch   what  I  see,  and   lightly  bring 

thee  word." 

So  saying,  from  the  ruin'd  shrine  he 
stept, 

And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of 
tombs. 

Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient 
men. 

Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea- 
wind  sang 

Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.  He, 
stepping  down 

By  zigzag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointed 
rock, 

Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 


There  drew  he  forth  the   brand  Ex. 

calibur, 
And   o'er   him,  drawing  it,  the   wintei 

moon. 
Brightening  the  skirts  of  a  long  cloud, 

ran  forth  * 

And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against 

the  hilt: 
For  ail  the  haft  twinkled  with  diamond 

sparks. 
Myriads   of  topaz-lights,   and    jacinth- 
work 
Of  subtlest  jewelry.     He  gazed  so  long 
That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled  as  he 

stood, 
This   way  and  that   dividing  the  swift 

mind, 
In   act   to   throw :   but   at   the   last  it 

seem'd 
Better  to  leave  Excalibur  conceal'd 
There  in  the  many-knotted  waterflags, 
That  whistled  stiff  and  dry  about  the 

marge. 
So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded 

King. 

Then    spake    King    Arthur  to   Sir 

Bedivere  : 
"  Hast    thou    performed    my  mission 

which  I  gave  t 
What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  "i  or  what  hast 

heard  .> " 

And    answer    made    the    bold    Sir 

Bedivere : 
"I  heard  the  ripple   washing    in   the 

reeds, 
And  the    wild  water  lapping  on   the 

crag." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint 

and  pale : 
"  Thou   hast  betray'd  thy  nature  and 

thy  name. 
Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  beseem'd 
Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight : 
For  surer    sign  had    follow'd,   either 

hand. 
Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  mere. 
This  is  a  shameful  thing  for  men  to  lie. 
Yet   now,    I  charge  thee,   quickly    go 

again, 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 


431 


As  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the 

thing 
I  bade   thee,  watch,  and  lightly  bring 

me  word." 

Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second 

time 
Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside  the 

mere, 
Counting   the   dewy   pebbles,    fix'd   in 

thought ; 
But  when  he   saw  the  wonder  of  the 

hilt. 
How   curiously  and  strangely  chased, 

he  smote 
His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud  : 

"  And  if  indeed  I  cast  the  brand  away, 
Surely  a   precious  thing,   one   worthy 

note. 
Should  thus  be  lost  forever  from  the 

earth, 
"Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes   of 

many  men. 
What  good  should  follow  this,  if  this 

were  done  ? 
What  harm,   undone?   deep  harm   to 

disobey, 
Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 
W^ere  it  well  to  obey  then,  if  a  king  de- 
mand 
An  act  unprofitable,  against  himself  ? 
The  King  is  sick  and  knows  not  what 

he  does. 
What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 
Should   be  to  after  time,   but    empty 

breath 
And  rumors  of  a  doubt  ?  but  were  this 

kept, 
Stored    in    some     treasure-house     of 

mighty  kings. 
Some  one  might  show  it  at  a  joust  of 

arms, 
Saying,  *  King  Arthur's  sword,  Excali- 

bur, 
Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the 

Lake. 
Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in  the 

deeps 
Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills.' 
So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  the 

aftertirae 


To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence. 
But  now  much  honor   and  much  fame 
were  lost." 

So  spake   he,  clouded  with  his  own 

conceit. 
And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time, 
And    so    strode    back    slow    to    the 

wounded  King. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  breathing 
heavily : 
*'  What  is  it  thou  hast  seen.?  or  what 
hast  heard  ? " 

And  answer  made  tae  bold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere: 

"I  heard  the  water  lapping  on  the 
crag. 

And  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the 
reeds." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  much 

in  wrath : 
"  Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
Unknightly,  traitor-hearted  !     Woe  is 

me  ! 
Authority  forgets  a  dying  king. 
Laid  widow'd  of  the  power  in  his  eye 
That  bow'd  the  will.     I  see  thee  what 

thou  art, 
For  thou,   the    latest-left    of    all  my 

knights 
In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all. 
Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  pre- 
cious hilt ; 
Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl 
Valuing  the    giddy  pleasure    of    the 

eyes. 
Yet,  for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice, 
And  the  third  time  prosper,  get  thee 

hence : 
But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 
I  will   arise  and  slay  thee   with  my 

hands." 

Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere,  and 

ran, 
And,  leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly, 

plunged 
Among  the  bulrush-beds,  and  clutch'd 

the  sword, 


438 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 


And  strongly   wheel 'd    and   threw  it. 

The  great  brand 
Made  lightnings  in  the  splendor  of  the 

moon, 
And   flashing   round   and    round,  and 

whirl'd  in  an  arch, 
Shot  like  a  streamer  of  the  northern 

morn, 
Seen  where  tha  moving  isles  of  winter 

shock 
By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern 

sea. 
So  flash'd  and  fell  the  brand  Excali- 

bur :  [arm 

But  ere   he  dipt  the   surface,  rose  an 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful. 
And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brand- 

ish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in 

the  mere. 
And  lightly   went  the    other  to    the 

King. 

Then  spoke   King  Arthur,  drawing 

thicker  breath  : 
"  Now  see  I  by  thine  eyes  that  this  is 

done. 
Speak  out :  what  is  it  thou  hast  heard 

or  seen  ? " 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 

vere  : 
"  Sir  King,  I  closed  mine  eyelids,  lest 

the  gems 
Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I  never 

saw, 
Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  I 

die, 
Not  tho'  I  live  three  lives  of  mortal 

men, 
So  great  a  miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 
Then  with   both   hands   I  flung   him, 

wheeling  him ; 
But  when  I  look'd  again,  behold  an 

arm. 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful. 
That    caught  him    by  the    hilt,   and 

brandish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in 

the  mere." 


And    answer  made     King   Arthur^ 

breathing  hard : 
"  My  end  draws  nigh ;  'tis  time  that  I 

were  gone. 
Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive 

my  weight. 
And   bear   me   to   the   margin;  yet   I 

fear 
My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I  shall 

die." 

So   saying,  from  the  pavement  he 

half  rose. 
Slowly,   with    pain,   reclining    on   his 

arm. 
And  looking  wistfully  witli  wide  blue 

eyes 
As  in  a  picture.     Him  Sir  Bedivere 
Remorsefully  regarded  thro'  his  tears. 
And  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found 

not  words  ; 
Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on 

one  knee. 
O'er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  lan- 
guid hands, 
And  rising  bore  him  thro'  the  place  of 

tombs. 

But,    as    he    walk'd.   King  Arthur 

panted  hard. 
Like  one  that  feels  a  nightmare  on  his 

bed 
When   all   the    house   is    mute.       So 

sigh'd  the  King, 
Muttering   and  murmuring  at  his  ear, 

"  Quick,  quick ! 
I  fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I  shall  die." 
But  the  other  swiftly  strode  from  ridge 

to  ridge. 
Clothed  with  his  breath,  and  looking, 

as  he  walk'd. 
Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 

He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a 

cry 
Before'.     His  own  thought  drove  hina 

like  a  goad. 
Dry  clash'd  his  harness    in  the    icy 

caves 
And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left  and 

right 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 


439 


The  bare  black  cliff  clang'd  round  him, 

as  he  based 
His  feet  on  juts  of  slippery  crag  that 

rang 
Sharp-smitten  with  the  dint  of  armed 

heels — 
And  on  a  sudden,  lo !  the  level  lake. 
And  the   long  glories   of  the   winter 

moon. 

Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a 

dusky  barge, 
Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stem  to 

stern, 
Beneath  them ;  and  descending  they 

were  ware 
That  all   the  decks  were  dense  with 

stately  forms, 
Black-stoled,     black-hooded,     like     a 

dream — by  these 
Three   Queens  with   crowns   of  gold : 

and  from  them  rose 
A  cry  that  shiver'd  to    the   tingling 

stars. 
And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony 
Of  lamentation,  like  a  wind  that  shrills 
All  night  in  a  waste  land,  where  no  one 

comes. 
Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of  the 

world. 

Then  murmur'd  Arthur,  "  Place  me 

in  the  barge ; " 
So  to  the   barge  they  came.     There 

rose  three  Queens 
Put  forth   their   hands,  and   took  the 

King,  and  wept. 
But  she,  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them 

all 
And  fairest,  laid   his   head   upon  her 

lap, 
And  loosed  the  shattered  casque,  and 

chafed  his  hands. 
And  call'd  him  by  his  name,  complain- 
ing loud. 
And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  his 

brow 
Striped   with   dark  blood:  for  all  his 

face  was  white 
And  colorless,  and  like  the  wither'd 

moon 


Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the  spring- 
ing east ; 

And  all  his  greaves  and  cuisses  dash'd 
with  drops 

Of  onset ;  and  the  light  and  lustrous 
curls — 

That  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising 
sun 

High  from  the  dais-throne  —  were 
parch'd  with  dust ; 

Or,  clotted  into  points  and  hanging 
loose, 

Mix'd  with  the  knightly  growth  that 
fringed  his  lips. 

So  like  a  shatter'd  column  lay  the 
King; 

Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance 
in  rest. 

From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tourna- 
ment, 

Shot  thro'  the  lists  at  Camelot,  and 
charged 

Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 


Then  loudly  cried  the  bcld  Sir  Bedi- 

vere  : 
"  Ah  !  my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall 

I  go? 
Where  shall  I  hide  my  forehead  and 

my  eyes  ? 
For  now  I  see  the  true  old  times  are 

dead. 
When  every  morning  brought  a  noble 

chance. 
And  every  chance  brought  out  a  noble 

knight. 
Such  times  have  been  not  since  the 

the  light  that  led 
The    holy  Elders    with  the    gift    of 

myrrh. 
But  now  the  whole   Round  Table  is 

dissolved 
Which  was   an  image   of  the   mighty 

world  ; 
And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companion 

less, 
And  the   days  darken  round  me,  and 

years,  "  ♦ 

Among  new  men,  strange  faces,  othf* 

minds." 


440 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 


And  slowly  answered  Arthur  from 

the  barge  : 
"The    old    order  changeth,  yielding 

place  to  new, 
And  God  fulfils  himself  in  many  ways, 
Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt 

the  world. 
Comfort  thyself :  what   comfort   is  in 

me  ? 
I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I 

have  done 
May  He  within  himself  make   pure  ! 

but  thou,  [again. 

If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face 
Pray  for   my  soul.     More   things   are 

wrought  by  prayer 
Than  this  world  dreams  of.     Where- 
fore, let  thy  voice 
Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and 

day. 
For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or 

goats  [brain, 

That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the 
If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of 

prayer 
Both  for  themselves   and  those  who 

call  them  friend  ? 
For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every 

way 
Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of 

God.  [way 

But  now  farewell.  I  am  going  a  long 
With  these  thou  seest — if  indeed  I  go 
(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a 

doubt)— 
To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion  ; 
Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any 

snow, 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly;  but  it 

lies 
Deep-meadow'd,   happy,  fair  with   or- 
chard-lawns 
And    bowery   hollows    crown'd    with 

summer  sea, 
Where  I  will  heal  me  of  my  grievous 

wound." 

So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar 
and  sail 
Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full- 
breasted  swan 


That,  fluting  a  wild    carol    ere    hef 

death. 
Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes 

the  flood 
With  swarthy  webs.     Long  stood  Sir 

Bedivere 
Revolving    many   memories,   till    the 

hull 
Look'd  one  black  dot  against  the  verge 

of  dawn. 
And  on  the    mere   the  wailing  died 

away. 

At  length  he  groan'd,  and  turning 

slowly  clomb 
The   last   hard  footstep   of  that   iron 

crag; 
Thence  mark'd  the  black  hull  moving 

yet,  and  cried, 
"  He   passes    to  be  king  among  the 

dead. 
And    after   healing    of  his    grievous 

wound 
He  comes  again ;  but — if  he  come  no 

more — 
O  me,  be  yon  dark  Queens  in  yon 

black  boat, 
Who   shriek'd   and   wail'd,    the  three 

whereat  we  gazed 
On  that  high  day,  when,  clothed  with 

living  light. 
They  stood  before  his  throne  in  si- 
lence, friends 
Of  Arthur,  who  should  help  him  at  his 

need  ? " 


Then  from  the  dawn  it  seem'd  there 

came,  but  faint 
As  from  beyond  the  limit  of  the  world, 
Like  the  last  echo  born  of  a  great  cry, 
Sounds,  as  if  some  fair  city  were  one 

voice 
Around    a    king    returning  from  his 

wars. 


Thereat  once  more  he  moved  about, 
and  clomb 
E'en  to  the  highest  he  could  climb^ 
and  saw. 


NORTHERN  FARMER. 


441 


Straining  his  eyes  beneath  an  arch  of 

Somewhere  far  off,  pass  on  and  on» 

hand, 

and  go 

Or  thought  he  saw,  the  speck  that  bare 

From  less  to    less    and  vanish  into 

the  king, 

light. 

Down  that  long  water  opening  on  the 

And  the   new  sun  rose   bringing  the 

deep 

new  year. 

MISCELLANEOUS 


NORTHERN  FARMER. 

NEW  STYLE. 
I. 

Dosn't  thou  'ear  my  'erse's  legs,  as 

they  canters  awaay  .'* 
Proputty,   proputty,     proputty — that's 

what  I  'ears  'em  saay. 
Proputty,    proputty,     proputty — Sam, 

thou's  an  ass  for  thy  paains  : 
Theer's  moor  sense  i'  one  o'  'is  legs 

nor  in  all  thy  braains. 

II. 

Woa — theer's  a  craw  to  pluck  wi*  tha, 

Sam  :  yon  's  parson's  'ouse — 
Dosn't  thou.knaw  that  a  man  mun  be 

eather  a  man  or  a  mouse  ? 
Time  to  think  on  it  then ;  for  thou  '11 

be  twenty  to  weeak.* 
Proputty,  proputty — woa  then  woa — 

let  ma  'ear  mysen  speak. 
III. 
Me  an'  thy  muther,  Sammy,  'as  bean  a- 

talkin'  o'  thee  ; 
Thou's  been  talkin'  to  muther,  an'  she 

bean  a  tellin'  it  me. 
Thou'll  not  marry  for  munny — thou's 

sweet  upo'  parson's  lass — 
Noa — thou'll  marry  for  luvv — an'  we 

boath  on  us  thinks  tha  an  ass.  - 


Seea'd  her  todaay  goa  by — Saaint's- 
daay — they  was  ringing  the  bells. 

She's  a  beauty  thou  thinks — an'  soa  is 
scoors  o'  gells. 


*  This  week. 


Them  as  'as  munny  an'  all — wot  's  a 
beauty  ? — the  flower  as  blaws. 

But  proputty,  proputty  sticks,  an'  pro- 
putty, proputty  graws. 


Do'ant  be  stunt :  *taaketime  :  I  knaws 

what  maakes  tha  sa  mad. 
Warn't  I  craazed  fur  the  lasses  mysen 

when  I  wur  a  lad  ? 
But  I  knaw'd  a  Quaaker  feller  as  often 

'as  towd  ma  this  : 
"  Doant  thou  marry  for  munny,  but  goa 

wheer  munny  is  I  " 


An*  I  went  wheer  munny  war :  an'  thy 

mother  coom  to  'and, 
Wi'  lots  o'  munny  laaid  by,  an' a  nice- 

tish  bit  o'  land. 
Maaybe  she  warn't  a  beauty : — I   niver 

give  it  a  thowt — 
But  warn't  she  as  good  to  cuddle  an* 

kiss  as  a  lass  as  'ant  newt } 


Parson's  lass  'ant  nowt,  an'  she  weant 

'a  nowt  when  'e  's  dead, 
Mun  be  a  guvness,  lad,  or  summut,  and 

addle  t  her  bread  : 
Why  ?  fur  'e  's  nobbut  a  curate,  ar 

weant  niver  git  naw  'igher ; 
An'  'e  maade  the  bed  as  'e  Tigs  on  afoot 

'e  coom'd  to  the  shire. 


*  Obstinate. 


t  Earn. 


442 


THE    VICTIM. 


And  thin  'e  coom'd  to  the  parish  wi' 

lots  o'  'Varsity  debt, 
Stook  to  his  taail  they  did,  an'  'e  'ant 

got  shut  on  'em  yet. 
An'  'e  ligs  on  'is  back  i'  the  grip,  wi' 

noan  to  lend  'im  a  shove, 
Woorse  nor  a  f ar-welter'd  *  yowe  :  fur 

Sammy,  'e  married  fur  luvv. 


Luvv  ?     What's  luvv  ?  thou   can  luvv 

thy  lass  an'  'er  munny  too, 
Maakin'   'em  goa  togither  as  they've 

good  right  to  do. 
Could'n  I  luvv  thy  muther  by  cause  o' 

'er  munny  laid  by  ? 
Naay — fur  I   luvv'd   'er  a   vast   sight 

moor  fur  it :  reason  why. 


Ay  an'  thy  muther  says  thou  wants  to 

marry  the  lass, 
Cooms   of  a  gentleman  burn:  an'  we 

boath  on  us  thinks  tha  an  ass. 
Woa  then,  proputty,  wiltha  ? — an  ass 

as  near  as  mays  nowt  t — 
Woa  then,  wiltha  ?  dangtha! — the  bees 

is  as  fell  as  owt.J 


Break  me  a  bit  o'  the  esh  for  his  'ead, 

lad,  out  o'  the  fence  ! 
Gentleman  burn  !    what  's  gentleman 

burn :  is  it  shillins  an'  pence  ? 
Proputty,  proputty 's  ivrything  'ere,  an*, 

Sammy,  I'm  blest 
If  it  is'nt  the  saame  oop  yonder,  fur 

them  as  'as  it 's  the  best. 

XII. 

Tis'n  them  as  'as  munny  as  breaks  into 

'onses  an'  steals, 
Them  as  'as  coats  to  their  backs  an' 

taakes  their  regular  meals. 


*  Or  fow-welter'd— said  of  a  sheep  lying  on 
its  back  in  a  furrow, 
t  Makes  nothing. 
X  The  flies  are  as  fierce  as  anything. 


Noa,  but  it's  them  as  niver  knaws 
wheer  a  meal  's  to  be  'ad. 

Taake  my  word  for  it,  Sammy,  the  poor 
in  a  loomp  is  bad. 


Them  or  thir  feythers,  tha  sees,  mun  'a 

bean  a  laazy  lot, 
Fur  work   mun   'a  gone  to  the  gittin* 

whiniver  munny  was  got. 
Feyther  'ad  ammost  nowt ;  leastwaays 

'is  munny  was  'id 
But  'e  tued  an'  moil'd  issen  dead,  an  'e 

died  a  good  un,  'e  did. 

XIV. 
Loook  thou   theer  wheer   Wrigglesby 

beck  comes  out  by  the  'ill ! 
Feyther  run  up  to  the  farm,  an'  I  runs 

up  to  the  mill  ; 
An'   I'll  run  up  to   the   brig,  an'  that 

thbu'll  live  to  see  ; 
And   if  thou   marries  a  good   un   I'll 

leave  the  land  to  thee. 

XV. 

Thim's  my  noations,  Sammy,  wheerby 

I  means  to  stick ; 
But  if  thou  marries  a  bad  un,  I  '11  leave 

the  land  to  Dick. — 
Coom   oop,  proputty,  proputty — that's 

what  I  'ears  'im  saay — 
Proputty,   proputty,   proputty — canter 

an'  canter  awaay. 


THE  VICTIM. 


A  PLAGUE  upon  the  people  fell, 

A  famine  after  laid  them  low, 
Then  thorpe  and  byre  arose  in  fire, 

F'or  on  them  brake  the  sudden  foe ; 
So  thick  they  died  the  people  cried, 

"The  Gods  are  moved  against  the 
land." 
The  Priest  in  horror  about  his  altar 

To  Thor  and  Odin  lifted  a  hand: 


WAGES, 


443 


"  Help  us  from  famine 
And  plague  and  strife  ! 
What  would  you  have  of  us  ? 
Human  life  ? 
Were  it  our  nearest, 
Were  it  our  dearest, 
(Answer,  O  answer) 
We  give  you  his  life." 

II. 

But  still  the  foeman  spoil'd  and  burn'd, 

And  cattle  died,  and  deer  in  wood, 
And  bird  in  air,  and  fishes  turn'd 

And  wliiten'd  ail  the  rolling  flood ; 
And  dead  men  lay  all  over  the  way, 
Or  down  in  a  furrow  scathed  with 
flame  : 
And  ever   and    aye  '  the     Priesthood 
moan'd 
Till  at  last  it  seem'd  that  an  answer 
came  : 

"  The  King  is  happy 
In  child  and  wife  ; 
Take  you  his  dearest, 
Give  us  a  life." 


The  Priest  went  out  by  heath  and  hill ; 

The  King  was  hunting  in  the  wild ; 
They  found  the  mother  sitting  still ; 
She  cast  her  arms  about  the  child. 
The  child  was  only  eight  summers  old. 
His   beauty   still    with  his  years  in- 
creased. 
His  face  was  ruddy,  his  hair  was  gold, 
He  seem'd  a  victim  due  to  the  priest. 
The  Priest  beheld  him, 
And  cried  with  joy, 
**  The  Gods  have  answer'd  : 
We  give  them  the  boy." 

IV.      ♦ 
The  King  return' d  from  out  the  wild, 

He  bore  but  little  game  in  hand; 
The  mother  said :  "  They  have  taken 
the  child 

To  spill  his  blood  and  heal  the  land : 
The  land  is  sick,  the  people  diseased. 

And  blight  and  famine  on  all  the  lea: 
The  holy  Gods,  they  must  be  appeased, 

So  I  pray  you  tell  the  truth  to  me. 


They  have  taken  our  son. 
They  will  have  his  life. 
Is  he  your  dearest  .'* 
Or  I  the  wife.?" 


The  King  bent  low,  with  hand  on  brow. 

He  stay'd  his  arms  upon  his  knee  : 
*'  O  wife,  what  use  to  answer  now } 
For  now  the   Priest  has  judged  fcr 
me" 
The  King  was  shaken  with  holy  fear ; 
"  The  Gods,"  he  said,  "  would  havu 
chosen  well ; 
Yet  both  are  near,  and  both  are  dear, 
And  which  the  dearest  I  cannot  tell !'' 
But  the  Priest  was  happy, 
His  victim  won  : 
"  We  have  his  dearest, 
His  only  son  !  " 

VI. 

The  rites  prepared,  the  victim  bared, 

The  knife  uprising  toward  the  blow. 
To  the  altar-stone  she  sprang  alone, 

"  Me,  not  my  darling,  no !  " 
He  caught  her  away  with  a  sudden  cry: 

Suddenly  from  him  brake  his  wife, 
And  shrieking,  "/am  his  dearest,  I — 
/  am  his  dearest  ! "  rush'd  on  the 
knife. 
And  the  Priest  was  happy, 
"  O  Father  Odin. 
We  give  you  a  life. 
Which  was  his  nearest  ? 
Who  was  his  dearest  ? 
The  Gods  have  answer'd  ; 
We  give  them  the  wife  !  " 


WAGES. 

Glory  of  warrior,  glory  of  orator,  glory 

of  song. 
Paid  with  a  voice  flying  to  be  lost  on 

an  endless  sea — 
Glory  of  Virtue,  to  fight,  to   struggle, 

to  right  the  wrong — 
Nay,  but  she  aim'd  noC  at  glory,  no 

lover  of  glory  she  : 
Give  her  the  glory  of  going  on,  and 

still  to  be. 


444 


LUCRE  7 'J  us. 


The  wages  of  sin  is  death  •  if  the  wages 

of  Virtue  be  dust, 
Would  she  have  heart  to  endure  foi- 

the  life  of  the  worm  and  the  fly  ? 
She  desires  no  isles  of  the  blest,  no 

quiet  seats  of  the  just, 
To  rest  in  a  golden  grove,  or  to  bask 

in  a  summer  sky : 
Give  her  the  wages  of  going  on,  and 

not  to  die. 


THE  HIGHER   PANTHEISM. 

The  sun,  the  moon,  the  Stars,  the  seas, 
the  hills  and  the  plains — 

Are  not  these,  O  Soul,  the  vision  of 
Him  who  reigns  t 

Is  not  the  Vision  He  ?  tho'  He  be  not 

that  which  he  seems  ? 
Dreams  are  true  while  they  last,  and 

do  we  not  live  in  dreams  ? 

Earth,  these  solid  stars,  this  weight  of 

body  and  limb. 
And  they  not  sign  and  symbol  of  thy 

division  from  Him  } 

Dark  is  the  world  to  thee  :  thyself  art 

the  reason  why  } 
For  is  He  not  all  but  thou,  that  hast 

power  to  feel  "  I  am  I .''  " 

Glory  about  thee,  without  thee;  and 

thou  fulfillest  thy  doom, 
Making    Him   broken   gleams,  and   a 

stifled  splendor  and  gloom. 

Speak  to  Him  thou  for  He  hears,  and 
Spirit  with  Spirit  can  meet — 

Closer  is  He  than  breathing,  and  nearer 
than  hands  and  feet. 

God  is  law,  say  the  wise  ;  O  Soul,  and 

let  us  rejoice, 
For  if  He  thunder  by  law  the  thunder 

is  yet  His  voice. 

Law  is  God,  say  some  :  no  God  at  all, 

says  the  fool ; 
For  all   we  have  power   to   see   is   a 

straight  staff  bent  in  a  pool ; 


And  the  ear  of  man  cannot  hear  and 
the  eye  of  man  cannot  see  ; 

But  if  we  could  see  and  hear,  this 
Vision — were  it  not  He  ? 


Flower  in  the  crannied  wall, 

I  pluck  you  out  of  the  crannies ; — 
Hold  you   here,  root  and   all,  in   my 
hand. 
Little  flower — ^but  if  I  could  under- 
stand 
What  you  are,  root  and  all,  and  all  in 
all; 
I  should  know  what  God  and  man  is. 


LUCRETIUS. 

LUCILIA,  wedded  to  Lucretius,  found 
Her  master  cold  ;  for  when  the  morn- 
ing flush 
Of  passion  and  the  first   embrace  had 

died 
Between  them,  tho'  he  loved  her  none 

the  less. 
Yet  often  when  the   women   heard  his 

foot 
Return  from  pacings  in  the  field,  and 

ran 
To  greet  him  with  a  kiss,  the  master 

took 
Small     notice,  or    austerely,   for — his 

mind 
Half  buried  in  some  weightier  argu' 

ment, 
Or  fancy-borne  perhaps  upon  the  rise 
And  long  roll   of  the   Hexameter-  he 

past 
To  turn  and  pdSder  those  chree  hun* 

dred  scrolls 
Left   by   the   Teacher   whom  he  held 

divine. 
She  brook'd  it  not ;  but  wrathful,  petu- 
lant. 
Dreaming  some  rival,  sought  and  found 

a  witch 
Who   brew'd   the   philtre    which   had 

power,  they  said, 
To  lead  an  erraivt  passion  home  agaio 


LUCRETTUS, 


% 

|pd  this,  at  times,  she  mingled  with 
his  drink, 

And  this  destroy'd  him ;  for  the  wicked 
broth 

Confused  the  chemic  labor  of  the  blood, 

And  tickling  the  brute  brain  within 
the  man's, 

Made  havoc  among  those  tender  cells, 
and  check'd 

His  power  to  shape :  he  loath'd  him- 
self ;  and  once 

After  a  tempest  woke  upon  a  morn 

That  mock'd  him  with  returning  calm, 
and  cried  : 

"Storm  in  the  night  1   for  thrice  I 
heard  the  rain 
Rushing ;  and  once  the  flash  of  a  thun- 
derbolt— 
Methought  I   never  saw  so  fierce    a 

fork- 
Struck    out   the   streaming   mountain- 
side, and  show'd 
A  riotous  confluence  of  watercourses 
Blanching  and  billowing   in   a  hollow 

of  it, 
Where  all  but  yester-eve  was  dusty-dry. 

**  Storm,  and  what  dreams,  ye  holy 
Gods,  what  dreams ! 

For  thrice  I  waken'd  after  dreams.  Per- 
chance 

We  do  but  recollect  the  dreams  that 
come 

Just  ere  the  waking :  terrible  !  for  it 
seem'd 

A  void  was  made  in  nature;  all  her 
bonds 

Crack'd;  and  I  saw  the  flaring  atom- 
streams 

And  torrents  of  her  myriad  universe, 

Ruining  along  the  illimitable  inane. 

Fly  on  to  clash  together  again,  and 
make 

Another  and  another  frame  of  things 

Forever  :  that  was  mine,  my  dream,  I 
knew  it 

Of  and  belonging  to  me,  as  the  dog 

With  inward  yelp  and  restless  forefoot 
plies 

His  function  of  the  woodland  ;  but  the 
next  I 


445 


I  thought  that  all  the  blood  by  Sylla 

shed 
Came  driving  rainlike  down  again  on 

earth, 
And   where   it   dash'd   the   reddening 

meadow,  sprang 
No   dragon   warriors    from   Cadmeaii 

teeth, 
For  these  I  thought  my  dream  would 

show  to  me. 
But  girls,  Hetairai,  curious  in  their  art, 
Hired  animalisms,  vile  as  those  that 

made 
The   mulberry-faced  Dictator's  orgies 

worse 
Than   aught   they  fable   of   the   quiet 

Gods. 
And  hands  they  mixt,  and  yell'd  and 

round  me  drove 
In  narrowing  circles  till  I  yell'd  again, 
Half   suffocated,  and  sprang  up,  and 

saw — 
Was  it  the  first  beam  of  my  latest  day  ? 

"Then,  then, from  utter  gloom  stood 

out  the  breasts. 
The  breasts  of  Helen,  and  hoveringly  a 

sword 
Now  over  and  now  under,  now  direct, 
Pointed  itself  to  pierce,  but  sank  down 

shamed 
At  all  that  beauty ;  and  as  I  stared,  a 

fire. 
The  fire  that  left  a  roofless  II ion, 
Shot  out  of  them,  and  scorch'd  me  that 

I  woke 

**  Is  this  thy  vengeance,  holy  Venus, 

thine, 
Because  I  would  not  one  of  thine  own, 

doves. 
Not  ev'n  a  rose,  were  offer'd  to  thee  } 

thine. 
Forgetful    how    my    rich     procemion 

makes 
Thy  glory  fly  along  the  Italian  field. 
In  lays  that  will  outlast  thy  Deity  ? 

"  Deity  .''  nay,  thy  worshippers.     My 
tongue 
Trips,  or  I  speak  profanely.     Whick 
of  these 


446 


LUCRETIUS. 


Angers  thee  most,  or  angers  thee   at 

all? 
Not   if   thou   be'st   of  those  who,  far 

aloof 
From   envy,  hate   and  pity,  and   spite 

and  scorn. 
Live    the   great    life   which    all    our 

greatest  fain 
Would  follow,  centr'd  in  eternal  calm. 

"  Nay,  if  thou  canst,  O  Goddess,  like 

ourselves 
Touch,  and  be  touch'd,  then  would  I 

cry  to  thee 
To   kiss  thy  Mavors,  roll   thy  tender 

arms 
Round   him,  and  keep  him  from   the 

lust  of  blood  . 

That  makes  a  steaming  slaughter-house 

of  Rome. 

"  A.y  but  I  meant  not  thee  ;  I  meant 

not  her. 
Whom  all  the  pines  of  Ida  shook  to 

see 
Slide  from  that  quiet  heaven  of  hers, 

and  tempt 
The  Trojan,  while  his  neat-herds  were 

abroad  ; 
Nor  her  that  o'er  her  wounded  hunter 

wept 
Her   Deity   false    in    human-amorous 

tears ; 
Nor  whom  her  beardless  apple-arbiter 
Decided  fairest.     Rather,  O  ye  Gods, 
Poet-like,  as  the  great  Sicilian  called 
Calliope  to  grace  his  golden  verse — 
Ay,  and  this  Kypris  also — did  I  take 
That  popular  name  of  thine  to  shadow 

forth 
The  all-generating   powers  and  genial 

heat 
Of  Nature,  when  she  strikes  thro'  the 

thick  lalood 
Of  cattle,  and  light  is  large,  and  lambs 

are  glad 
Nosing   the   mother's   udder,  and    the 

bird 
Makes  his  heart  voice  amid  the  blaze 

of  flowers : 
Which  things    appear    the  work    of 

mighty  Gods. 


"  The  Gods  !   and  if  I  go  my  work  is 

left 
Unfinish'd — if  I  go.     The  Gods,  who 

haunt 
The   lucid    interspace    of  world  and 

world. 
Where  never  creeps  a  cloud,  or  moves 

a  wind, 
Nor  ever  falls   the  least  white   star  of 

snow. 
Nor  ever  lowest  roll  of  thunder  moans, 
Nor  sound  of  human  sorrow  mounts  to 

mar 
Their    sacred   everlasting   calm !   and 

such, 
Not  all  so  fine,  nor  so  divine  a  calm. 
Not   such,  nor   all  unlike  it,  man    may 

gain 
Letting   his  own  life  go.     The    Gods, 

the  Gods  ! 
If  all  be  atoms,  how  then  should  the 

Gods 
Being  atomic  not  be  dissoluble, 
Not  follow  the  great  law  1     My  master 

held 
That  Gods   there   are,  for   all  men   so 

believe. 
I  prest  my  footsteps  into  his,  and  meant 
Surely  to  lead  my  Memmius  in  a  train 
Of  flowery  clauses  onward  to  the  proof 
That   Gods  there  are,  and  deathless. 

Meant  >   I  meant  ? 
I  have   forgotten  what  I  meant  :   my 

mind 
Stumbles,   and   all    my   faculties    are 

lamed. 


"  I>ook  where  another  of  our  Gods, 
the  Sun, 

Apollo,  Delius,  or  of  older  use 

All-seeing  Hyperion — what  you  will — 

Has  mounted  yonder  ;  since  he  never 
sware, 

Except  his  wrath  were  wreak'd  on 
wretched  man. 

That  he  would  only  shine  among  the 
dead 

Hereafter  ;  tales  !  for  never  yet  on 
earth 

Could  dead  flesh  creep,  or  bits  of  roast- 
ing ox 


LUCRETIUS. 


447 


Moan  round  the  spit — nor  knows  he 
what  he  sees ; 

King  of  the  East  altho'  he  seem,  and 
girt 

With  song  and  flame  and  fragrance, 
slowly  lifts 

His  golden  feet  on  those  empurpled 
stairs 

That  climb  into  the  windy  halls  of 
heaven : 

And  here  he  glances  on  an  eye  new- 
born, 

And  gets  for  greeting  but  a  wail  of 
pain : 

And  here  he  stays  upon  a  freezing  orb 

That  fain  would  gaze  upon  him  to  the 
last; 

And  here  upon  a  yellow  eyelid  fall'n 

And  closed  by  those  who  mourn  a 
friend  in  vain, 

Not  thankful  that  his  troubles  are  no 
more. 

And  me,  altho'  his  fire  is  on  my  face 

Blinding,  he  sees  not,  nor  at  all  can 
tell 

Whether  I  mean  this  day  to  end  my- 
self. 

Or  lend  an  ear  to  Plato  where  he  says, 

That  men  like  soldiers  may  not  quit 
the  post 

Allotted  by  the  Gods:  but  he  that 
holds 

The  Gods  are  careless,  wherefore  need 
he  care 

Greatly  for  them,  nor  rather  plunge  at 
once, 

Being  troubled,  wholly  out  of  sight, 
and  sink 

Past  earthquake — ay,  and  gout  and 
stone,  that  break 

Body  toward  death,  and  palsy,  death- 
in-life,  [  of  all. 

And  wretched  age — and  worst  disease 

These  prodigies  of  myriad  nakednesses. 

And  twisted  shapes  of  lust,  unspeak- 
able. 

Abominable,  strangers  at  my  hearth 

Not  welcome,  harpies  miring  every 
dish. 

The  phantom  husks  of  something  foully 
one. 


And  fleeting  thro'  the  boundless  uni- 
verse, 

And  blasting  the  long  quiet  of  my 
breast 

With  animal  heat  and  dire  insanity  ? 

'*  How  should  the  mind,  except  it 
loved  them,  clasp 

These  idols  to  herself  ?  or  do  they  fly 

Now  thinner,  and  now  thicker,  like  the 
flakes 

In  a  fall  of  snow,  and  so  press  in,  per- 
force 

Of  multitude,  as  crowds  that  in  an 
hour 

Of  civic  tumult  jam  the  doors,  and 
bear 

The  keepers  down,  and  throng,  their 
rags  and  they. 

The  basest,  far  into  that  council-hall 

Where  sit  the  best  and  stateliest  of 
the  land  ? 

"  Can  I  not  fling   this  horror  off  me 

again, 
Seeing  with  how  great  ease  Nature  can 

smile, 
Balmier  and  nobler  from  her  bath  of 

storm. 
At  random  ravage  ?  and  how  easily 
The  mountain  there  has  cast  his  cloudy 

slough, 
Now  towering  o'er  him  in  serenest  air, 
A  mountain  o'er  a  mountain, — ay,  and 

within 
All  hollow  as  the  hopes   and  fears   of 

men. 

"  But  who  was  he,  that  in  the  garden 

snared 
Picus  and  Faunus,  rustic  Gods  ?  a  tale 
To  laugh  at — more  to  laugh  at  in  mv- 

self— 
For  look  !   what  is  it  ?   there  ?   yon  ar. 

butus 
Totters ;    a  noiseless  riot  underneath 
Strikes  through  the  wood,  sets  all  th« 

tops  quivering — 
The  mountain   quickens   into  Nymph 

and  Faun ; 
And  here  an  Oread — how  the  sun  d© 
ghts 


448 


LUCRETIUS. 


To  glance  and  shift  about  her  slippery 
sides, 

And  rosy  knees  and  supple  rounded- 
ness, 

And  budded  bosom-peaks  — who  this 
way  runs 

Before  the  rest — A  satyr,  a  satyr,  see, 

Follows;  but  him  I  proved  impossi- 
ble ; 

Twy-natured  is  no  nature :  yet  he 
draws 

Nearer  and  nearer,  and  I  scan  him 
now 

Beastlier  than  any  phantom  of  his 
kind 

That  ever  butted  his  rough  brother- 
brute 

For  lust  or  lusty  blood  or  provender  : 

I  hate,  abhor,  spit,  sicken  at  him  ;  and 
she 

Loathes  him  as  well ;  such  a  precipi- 
tate heel, 

Fledged  as  it  were  with  Mercury's  an- 
kle-wing, 

Whirls  her  to  me :  but  will  she  fling 
herself, 

Shameless  upon  me  ?  Catch  her, 
goatfoat :  nay. 

Hide,  hide  them,  million-myrtled  wil- 
derness, 

And  cavern-shadowing  laurels,  hide ! 
do  I  wish — 

What  ? — that  the  bush  were  leafless  ? 
or  to  whelm 

All  of  them  in  one  massacre  ?  O  ye 
Gods, 

I  know  you  careless,  yet,  behold,  to 
you 

From  childly  wont  and  ancient  use  I 
call— 

I  thought  I  lived  securely  as  your- 
selves— 

Ko  lewdness,  narrowing-envy,  monkey- 
spite, 

No  madness  of  ambition,  avarice, 
none  : 

No  larger  feast  than  under  plane  or 
pine 

With  neighbors  laid  along  the  grass,  to 
take 

Only  such  cups  as  left  us  friendly- warm, 


Affirming  each  his  own  philosophy — 
Nothing  to  mar  the  sober  majesties 
Of  settled,  sweet.  Epicurean  life. 
But  now  it  seems  some  unseen  monster 

lays 
His  vast  and  filthy   hands   upon  my 

will. 
Wrenching  it  backward  into   his :  and 

spoils 
My   bliss   in   being;    and  it   was   not 

great ; 
For  save  when  shutting  reasons  up  in 

rhythm. 
Or  Heliconian  honey  in  living  words. 
To  make  a  truth   less   harsh,  I   often 

grew 
Tired  of  so  much  within  our  little  life. 
Or  of  so  little  in  our  little  life — 
Poor   little   life    that  toddles   half  an 

hour 
Crown'd  with   a  flower   or   two,    and 

there  an  end — 
And  since  the  nobler  pleasure  seems 

to  fade, 
Why  should  I,  beastlike  as  I  find  my- 
self. 
Not  manlike  end  myself? — our  privi- 
lege— 
What  beast  has  heart  to  do  it  ?     And 

what  man. 
What   Roman   would   be    dragg'd    in 

triumph  thus  ? 
Not  I ;  not  he,  who  bears  one  name 

with  her. 
Whose  death-blow  struck  the  dateless 

doom  of  kings. 
When  brooking  not  the  Tarquin  in  her 

veins, 
She  made  her  blood  in  sight  of  Colla- 

tine 
And  all  his  peers,  flushing  the  guiltless 

air. 
Spout  from  the  maiden  fountain  in  her 

heart. 
And    from    it    sprang    the    Common- 
wealth, which  breaks 
As  I  am  breaking  now ! 

"  And  therefore  now 
Let  her,  that  is  the  womb  and  tomb  of 
all, 


THE  GOLDEN  SUPPER. 


449 


Great   Nature,   take,  and   forcing   far 

apart 
Those  blind  beginnings  that  have  made 

me  man 
Dash  them  anew  together  at  her  will 
Through  all  her  cycles — into  man  once 

more. 
Or  beast  or  bird  or  fish,  or  opulent 

flower  : 
But  till  this  cosmic  order  everywhere 
Shatter'd  into  one  earthquake  in  one 

day 
Cracks  all  to  pieces, — and  that  hour 

perhaps 
Is  not  so  far  when  momentary  man 
Shall  seem  no  more  a  something  to 

himself, 
But  he,  his  hopes  and  hates,  his  homes 

and  fanes. 
And  even  his  bones  long  laid  within 

the  grave, 
The  very  sides  of  the  grave  itself  shall 

pass. 
Vanishing,  atom  and  void,  atom  and 

void. 
Into    the     unseen    forever, — till    that 

hour, 
My  golden  work  in   which   I  told  a 

truth 
That  stays  the  rolling  Ixionian  wheel, 
And  numbs  the  Fury's  ringlet-snake, 

and  plucks 
The  mortal  soul   from  out  immortal 

hell,  [last 

Shall  stand ;  ay,  surely :  then  it  fails  at 
And  perishes  as  I  must ;  for  O  Thou, 
Passionless  bride,  divine  Tranquillity, 
Yearn'd   after   by   the   wisest   of    the 

virise, 
Who  fail'd  to  find  thee,  being  as  thou 

art 
Without  one  pleasure  and  without  one 

pain, 
Howbeit  I  know  thou  surely  must  be 

mine 
Or  soon  or  late,  yet  out  of  season,  thus 
I  woo  thee  roughly,  for  thou  carest  not 
How  roughly  men  may  woo  thee  so 

they  win — 
Thus — thus :    the   soul   flies   out   and 

dies  in  the  air." 


With  that  he  drove  the  knife  into 

his  side  : 
She  heard  him  raging,  heard  him  fall ; 

ran  in, 
Beat  breast,  tore  hair,  cried  out  upon 

herself 
As  having  fail'd  in  duty  to  him,  shriek'd 
That  she  but  meant  to  win  him  back, 

fell  on  him, 
Clasp'd,  kiss'd  him,  wail'd:  he  answer'd, 

"  Care  not  thou  ! 
Thy  duty  ?  What  is  duty  ?  Fare  thee 

well ! " 


THE  GOLDEN   SUPPER. 

[This  poem  is  founded  upon  a  story  in  Boc- 
caccio. 

A  young  lover,  Julian,  whose  cousin  and 
foster-sister,  Camilla,  has  been  wedded  to  his 
friend  and  rival,  Lionel,  endeavors  to  narrate 
the  story  of  his  own  love  for  iier,  and  the 
strange  sequel  of  it.  He  speaks  of  having 
been  haunted  in  delirium  by  visions  and  the 
sound  of  bells,  sometimes  tolling  for  a  funeral, 
and  at  last  ringing  for  a  marriage :  but  he 
breaks  away,  overcome,  as  he  approaches  the 
Event,  and  a  witness  to  it  completes  the  tale.] 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

He  flies  the  event :  he  leaves  the  event 

to  me : 
Poor  Julian — how  he  rush'd  away ;  the 

bells, 
Those  marriage-bells,  echoing  in  ear 

and  heart — 
But  cast  a  parting  glance  at  me,  you 

saw, 
As  who  should  say  "  continue."    Well, 

he  had 
One  golden  hour — of  triumph  shall  I 

say.? 
Solace    at  least — before   he   left    his 

home. 

Would  you  had  seen  him  in   that 

hour  of  his! 
He  moved  thro'  all  of  it  majestically— 
Restrain'd  himself  quite  to  the  close — 

but  now — 

Whether  they  were  his  lady's  mar- 
riage-bells, 
Or  prophets  of  them  in  his  fantasy, 


ro 


THE  GOLDEN  SUPPER. 


I   never   ask'd :    but   Lionel   and   the 

girl 
Were  wedded,   and  our   Julian   came 

again 
Back  to  his  mother's  house  among  the 

pines. 
But  there,  their  gloom,  the  mountains 

and  the  Bay, 
The  whole  land  weigh'd  him  down  as 

^tna  does 
The  Giant  of  Mythology:    he   would 

Would  leave  the  land  forever,  and  had 

gone  [yet," 

Surely,    but   for   a  whisper   "Go   not 
Some    warning,    and     divinely    as    it 

seem'd 
By  that  which  follow'd — but  of  this  I 

deem 
As  of  the  visions   that   he   told — the 

event  [life, 

Glanced  back  upon  them  in  his  after 
And  partly  made  them — tho'  he  knew 

it  not. 

And  thus  he  stay'd  and  would  not 

look  at  her — 
No   not  for  months ;    but,  when   the 

eleventh  moon 
After  their  marriage  lit  the  lover's  Bay, 
Heard  yet  once  more  the  tolling  bell, 

and  said. 
Would  you  could  toll  me  out  of  life, 

but  found — 
All  softly  as  his  mother  broke  it  to 

him — 
A  crueller  reason  than  a  crazy  ear, 
For    that   low   knell   tolling    his   lady 

dead — 
Dead — and  had  lain  three  days  with- 
out a  pulse : 
All  that  look'd  on  her  had  pronounced 

her  dead. 
And  so  they  bore  her  (for  in  Julian's 

land 
They   never  nail  a  dumb  head  up  in 

elm), 
Bore  her  free-faced  to  the  free  airs  of 

heaven, 
And  laid  her  in  the  vault  of  her  own 

kin. 


What  did  he  then  "i  not  die  :  he  is 

here  and  hale — 
Not    plunge   headforemost    from    the 

mountain  there. 
And  leave  the  name  of  Lover's  Leap  : 

not  he  : 
He  knew  the  meaning  of  the  whisper 

now. 
Thought  that  he  knew  it.    "This,  I 

stay'd  for  this ; 

0  love,  I  have  not  seen   you  for  so 

long. 
Now,  now,  will  I  go  down  into  the 
grave, 

1  will  be  all  alone,  with  all  I  love, 
And  kiss  her  on  the  lips.     She  is  his 

no  more  : 
The   dead  returns  to  me,  and  I   go 

down 
To  kiss  the  dead." 

The  fancy  stirr'd  him  so 
He  rose  and  went,  and  entering  the 

dim  vault. 
And,  making  there  a  sudden  light  be- 
held 
All  round  about  him  that  which  all  will 

be. 
The  light  was  but  a  flash,  and  went 

again. 
Then  at  the  far  end  of  the  vault  he 

saw 
His   lady  with  the  moonlight  on  her 

face; 
Her  breast  as  in  a  shadow-prison,  bars 
Of  black  and  bands  of  silver,  which 

the  moon 
Struck  from  an  open  grating  overhead 
High  in  the  wall,  and  all  the  rest  of 

her 
Drown'd  in  the  gloom  and  horror  ot 

the  vault. 

"  It  was  my  wish,"  he  said,  "  to  pass, 

to  sleep. 
To  rest,  to  be  with  her — till  the  great 

day 
Peal'd   on   us   with   that  music  which 

rights  all, 
And   raised  us  hand  in  hand."     And 

kneeling  there 


THE  GOLDEN  SUPPER. 


451 


Down  in  the  dreadful  dust  that  once 

was  man, 
Dust,  as  he  said,  that  once  was  loving 

hearts, 
Hearts  that  had  beat  with  such  a  love 

as  mine — 
Not  such  as  mine,  no,  nor  for  such  as 

her — 
He    softly    put    his    arm    about    her 

neck 
And  kiss'd  her  more   than   once,  till 

helpless  death 
And  silence  made  him  bold — nay,  but 

I  wrong  him, 
He  reverenced  his  dear  lady  even  in 

death ; 
But,  placing  his  true  hand  upon  her 

heart, 
"  O,  you  warm  heart,"  he  moan'd,  "  not 

even  death 
Can  chill  you  all  at  once  : "  then  start- 
ing, thought 
His  dreams  had  come  again.     "  Do  I 

wake  or  sleep  ? 
Or  am  I  made  immortal,  or  my  love 
Mortal   once  more?"      It  beat  —  the 

heart — it  beat : 
Faint — but  it  beat :  at  which  his  own 

began 
To  pulse  with  such  a  vehemence  that 

it  drown'd 
The  feebler  motion    underneath    his 

hand. 
But  when  at  last  his  doubts  were  satis- 
fied, 
He   raised   her   softly  from   the   sep- 
ulchre. 
And,  wrapping  her  all  over  with  the 

cloak 
He  came  in,  and  now  striding  fast,  and 

now 
Sitting  awhile  to  rest,  but  evermore 
Holding    his    golden  burthen    in    his 

arms. 
So  bore  her  thro'  the  solitary  land 
Back  to  the  mother's  house  where  she 

was  born. 

There  the  good  mother's  kindly  min- 
istering. 
With  half  a  night's  appliances,  recall'd 


Her  fluttering  life :  she  raised  an  eye 

that  ask'd 
"Where?"   till  the  things  familiar  to 

her  youth 
Had  made  a  silent  answer:  then  shd 

spoke, 
"  Here !  and  how  came  I  here  ? "  and 

learning  it 
(They  told  her  somewhat  rashly  as  I 

think) 
At  once  began  to  wander  and  to  wail, 
"  Ay,  but  you  know  that  you  must  give 

me  back  : 
Send !  bid  him  come ;  "  but  Lionel  was 

away. 
Stung  by  his  loss  had  vanish'd,  none 

knew  where. 
"He  casts  me  out,"  she  wept,  "and 

goes  " — a  wai\ 
That  seeming  something,  yet  was  noth- 
ing, born 
Not  from  believing  mind,  but  shatter'd 

nerve. 
Yet   haunting  Julian,  as  her  own  re-- 

proof 
At  some  precipitance  in  her  burial. 
Then,  when   her  own   true  spirit  had 

return'd, 
"O  yes,  and  you,"  she  said,  "and 

none  but  you. 
For  you  have  given  me  life  and  love 

again. 
And  none  but  you  yourself  shall  tell 

him  of  it, 
And  you  shall  give  me  back  when  he 

returns." 
"  Stay  then  a  litde,"  answer'd  Julian, 

"here, 
And  keep  yourself,  none  knowing,  to 

yourself  ; 
And  I  will  do  your  will.     I  may  not 

stay, 
No,  not  an  hour;  but  send  me  notice; 

of  him  [turn. 

When  he  returns,  and  then  will  I  re- 
And  I  will  make  a  solemn  offering  ot 

you 
To   him   you  love."    And  faintly  she 

replied, 
"And  I  will  do  your  will,  and  none 

shall  know." 


452 


THE  GOLDEN  SUPPER. 


Not  know?  with  such  a  secret  to 
be  known. 

But  all  their  house  was  old  and  loved 
them  both, 

And  all  the  house  had  known  the  loves 
of  both  ; 

Had  died  almost  to  serve  them  any 
way, 

And  all  the  land  was  waste  and  soli- 
tary: 

And  then  he  rode  away;  but  after  this, 

An  liour  or  two,  Camilla's  travail  came 

Upon  her,  and  that -day  a  boy  was 
born, 

Heir  of  his  face  and  land,  to  Lionel. 

And    thus    our    lonely  lover    rode 

away. 
And  pausing  at  a  hostel  in  a  marsh, 
There  fever  seized  upon  him  :  myself 

was  then 
Travelling  that  land,  and  meant  to  rest 

an  hour ; 
And  sitting  down  to  such  a  base  re- 
past, 
It  makes  me  angry  yet  to  speak  of  it — 
I    heard    a    groaning    overhead,   and 

climb'd 
The  moulder'd  stairs   (for  everythirg 

was  vile) 
And  in  a  loft,  with  none  to  wait  on 

him. 
Found,  as  it  seem'd,  a  skeleton  alone, 
Raving  of  dead  men's  dust  and  beating 

hearts. 

A  dismal  hostel  in  a  dismal  land, 
A    flat   malarian   world   of    reed    and 

rush ! 
But  there  from  fever  and  my  care  of 

him 
Sprang  up  a  friendship  that  may  help 

us  yet. 
For  while  we  roam'd  along  the  dreary 

coast, 
And  waited  for  her  message,  piece  by 

piece 
I  learnt  the  drearier  story  of  his  life ; 
And,  tho'  he  loved  and  honor'd  Lionel, 
Found  that  the  sudden  wail  his  lady 

made 


Dwelt  in  his  fancy  :  did  he  know  hei 

worth. 
Her  beauty  even.?    should  he  not  be 

taught, 
Ev'n  by  the  price  that  others  set  upon 

it, 
The  value   of  that  jewel   he   had   to 

guard .? 

Suddenly  came   her  notice   and  wc 
past, 
I  with  our  lover  to  his  native  Bay. 

This  love  is  of  the  brain,  the  mind, 

the  soul : 
That    makes    the    sequel   pure;    tho' 

some  of  us 
Beginning  at  the  sequel  know  no  more. 
Not  such  am   I :    and  yet  I  say,  the 

bird 
That  will  not  hear  my  call,  however 

sweet. 
But   if  my  neighbor  whistle  answers 

him — 
What  matter  ?  there  are  others  in  the 

wood. 
Yet  when  I  saw  her  (and  I  thought 

him  crazed, 
Tho'   not    with    such    a    craziness   as 

needs 
A  cell  and  keeper),  those  dark  eyes  of 

hers — 
Oh  !  such  dark  eyes !  and  not  her  eyes 

alone, 
But  all  from  thesQ  to  where  she  touch'd 

on  earth. 
For  such  a  craziness  as  Julian's  seem'd 
No  less  than  one  divine  apology. 

So    sweetly   and    so    modestly  she 

came  — 

To  greet  us,  her   young  hero   in   her 

arms! 
"  Kiss   him,"   she   said.      "  You  gave 

me  life  again. 
He,  but   for   you,   had   never   seen  it 

once. 
His  other  father  you  !     Kiss  him,  and 

then 
Forgive    him,  if   his   name   be   Julian 

too." 


THE  GOLDEI^  SUPPER. 


453 


Talk  of  lost  hopes  and  broken  heart  I 

his  own 
Sent    such  a  flame    into   his  face,   I 

knew 
Some  sudden  vivid  pleasure  hit  him 

there. 

But  he  was  all  the  more  resolved  to 

go, 
And  sent  at  once   to  Lionel,  praying 

him 
By  that  great  love  they  both  had  borne 

the  dead, 
To  come  and  revel  for  one  hour  with 

him 
Before  he  left  the  land  forevermore ; 
And  then  to  friends — they  were   not 

many — who  lived 
Scatteringly  about  that  lonely  land  of 

his, 
And  bade  them  to  a  banquet  of  fare- 
wells. 

And  Julian  made  a  solemn  feast ;  I 

never 
Sat  at  a  costlier  ;  for  all  round  his  hall 
From  column  on  to  column,  as  in  a 

wood. 
Not  such  as  here — an  equatorial  one. 
Great  garlands  swung  and  blossom'd; 

and  beneath, 
Heirlooms,   and    ancient    miracles  of 

Art, 
Chalice  and  salver,  wines  that,  Heaven 

knows  when, 
Had  suck'd  the  fire  of  some  forgotten 

sun, 
And  kept  it  thro'  a  hundred  years  of 

gloom. 
Yet  glowing  in  a  heart  of  ruby — cups 
Where  nymph  and  god  ran  ever  round 

in  gold — 
Others  of  glass  as  costly — some  with 

gems 
Movable  and  resettable  at  will, 
And  trebling  all  the  rest  in  value — Ah 

heavens ! 
Why  need  I  tell  you  all?— suffice  to 

say 
That  whatsoever  such  a  house  as  his, 
And  his  was  old,  has  in  it  rare  or  fair 


Was   brought  befoi-e   the   guest;    and 

they,  the  guests, 
Wonder'd    at    some   strange   light   in 

Julian's  eyes 
(I   told   you   that  he   had  his  golden 

hour). 
And  such  a  feast,  ill-suited  as  it  seem'd 
To  such  a  time,  to  Lionel's  loss  and 

his, 
And   that  resolved  self-exile  from   a 

land 
He  never  would  revisit,  such  a  feast 
So  rich,  so  strange,  and  stranger  ev*n 

than  rich, 
But  rich  as  for  the  nuptials  of  a  king. 

And  stranger  yet,  at  one  end  of  the 

hall 
Two  great  funereal  curtains,   looping 

down. 
Parted  a  little  ere  they  met  the  floor, 
About  a  picture  of  his  lady,  taken 
Some  years  before,  and  falling  hid  the 

frame. 
And  just  above    the    parting   was  a 

lamp: 
So  the  sweet  figure  folded  round  with 

night 
Seem'd  stepping  out  of  darkness  with 

a  smile. 

Well   then — our   solemn    feast — we 

ate  and  drank. 
And  might — the  wines  being  of   such 

nobleness — 
Have  jested  also,  but  for  Julian's  eyes. 
And  something  weird  and  wild  about 

it  all  : 
What  was  it.?  for  our  lover  seldom 

spoke. 
Scarce  touch'd  the  meats;  but  ever 

and  anon 
A   priceless    goblet    with  a  priceless 

wine 
Arising,  show'd  he  drank  beyond  his 

use: 
And  when  the  feast  was  near  an  end, 

he  said; 

"There  is  a  custom  in  the   Orient, 
friends — 
I  read  of  it  in  Persia  —when  a  man 


454 


THE  GOLDEN  SUPPER. 


Will  honor  those  who  feast  with  him, 
he  brings 

And  shows  them  whatsoever  he  ac- 
counts 

Of  all  his  treasures  the  most  beautiful, 

Gold,  jewels,  arms,  whatever  it  may 
be. 

This  custom—*' 

Pausing  here  a  moment,  all 
The  guests  broke  in  upon  him  with 

meeting  hands 
And  cries  about  the  banquet — "  Beau- 
tiful ! 
Who  could  desire  more  beaut"  at  a 
feast  ? " 

The  lover  answer'd,  **  There  is  more 

than  one 
Here  sitting  who  desires  it.     Laud  me 

not 
Before  my  time,  but  hear  me   to  the 

close. 
This   custom  steps  yet  further  when 

the  guest 
Is  loved  and  honor'd  to  the  uttermost. 
For  after  he  has  shown  him  gems  or 

gold. 
He  brings  and  sets  before  him  in  rich 

guise 
That  which  is  thrice  as  beautiful   as 

these, 
The  beauty  that    is    dearest    to    his 

heart — 

*  O   my   heart's    lord,   would  I   could 

show  you,'  he  says. 

*  Ev'n  my  heart  too.'    And  I  propose 

to-night 
To  show  you  what  is  dearest  to  my 

heart, 
And  my  heart  too. 

"  But  solve  me  iir.st  a  doubt 
I  knew  a  man,  nor  many  years  ago  ; 
He  had  a  faithful  servant,  one  who 

loved 
His  master   more  than   all  on   earth 

beside. 
He  falling  sick,  and  seeming  close  on 

death. 
His  master   vv'ould  not  wait  until   he 

died. 


But   bade  his  menials  bear  him  from 

the  door. 
And  leave  him  in  the  public  way  to  die. 
I  knew  another,  not  so  long  ago. 
Who  found  the  dying  servant,  took  him 

home. 
And  fed,  and  cherish'd  him,  and  saved 

his  life. 
I  ask  you  now,  should  this  first  master 

claim 
His  service,  whom  does  it  belong  to  } 

him 
Who  thrust  him  out,  or  him  who  saved 

his  life .? " 

This  question,  so  flung  down  before 

the  guests, 
And  balanced  either  way  by  each,  at 

length 
When  some  were  doubtful  how  the  lavr 

would  hold. 
Was  handed  over  by  consent  of  all 
To  one  who  had  not  spoken,  Lionel. 

Fair  speech  was  his,  and  delicate  of 

phrase. 
And  he  beginning  languidly — his  loss 
Weigh'd  on  him  yet — but  warming  as 

he  went, 
Glanced  at  the  point  of  law,  to  pass  it 

by. 

Affirming  that  as  long  as  either  lived, 
By  all  the  laws  of  love  and  gratefulness, 
The  service  of  the  one  so   saved  was 

due 
All  to  the  saver — adding,  with  a  smile, 
The  first  for  many  weeks — a  semi-smile 
As  at  a  strong  conclusion — "  body  and 

soul 
And  life  and  limbs,  all  his  to  work  his 

will." 

Then  Julian  made  a  secret  sign  to 
me 

To  bring  Camilla  down  before  them  all 

And  crossing  her  own  picture  as  she 
came, 

And  looking  as  much  lovelier  as  her- 
self 

Is  lovelier  than  all  others — on  her 
head 

A  diamond  circlet  and  from  under  this 


THE  GOLDEN  SUPPER. 


455 


A  veil,  that  seem'd  no  more  than  gilded 

air, 
Flying   by  each  fine   ear,  an   Eastern 

gauze 
With  seeds  of  gold — so,  with  that  grace 

of  hers, 
Slow-moving  as   a   wave   against   the 

wind, 
That  flings  a  mist  behind  it-in  the  sun — 
And  bearing  high   in   arms  the  mighty 

babe. 
The  younger  Julian,  who  himself  was 

crown'd 
With  roses,  none  so  rosy  as  himself — 
And  over  all  her  babe  and   her  the 

jewels 
Of  many  generations  of  his  house 
Sparkled  and  flash'd,  for  he  had  decked 

them  out 
As  for  a  solemn  sacrifice  of  love — 
So  she   came  in  : — I  am  long  in  telling 

it, 
I  never  yet  beheld  a  thing  so  strange. 
Sad,    sweet,    and    strange  together — 

floated  in, — 
While  all  the  guests  in  mute  amaze- 
ment rose, — 
And  slowly  pacing  to  the  middle  hall. 
Before  the   board,  there   oaused  and 

stood,  her  breast 
flard-heaving,  and  her  eyes  upon  her 

feet. 
Not  daring  yet  to  glance  at  Lionel 
But  him  she  carried,  him  nor  lights  nor 

feast 
Dazed  or  amazed,  nor  eyes  of  men  ; 

who  cared 
Only  to  use  his  own,  and  staring  wide 
And  hungering  for  the  gilt  and  jewell'd 

world 
About    him,   look'd,  as  he    is   like  to 

prove, 
When  Julian  goes,  the  lord  of  all  he 

saw. 

"  My    guests,"   said   Julian  :    "  you 

arfe  honor'd  now 
Ev'n  to  the  uttermost  :  in  her  behold 
Of  all  my  treasures  the  most  beautiful, 
Of  all  things  upon  earth  the  dearest  to 

me." 


Then  waving  us  a  sign  to  seat  ourselves, 
Led  his  dear  lady  to  a  chair  of  state. 
And  I,  by  Lionel  sitting,  saw  his  face 
Fire,  and  dead  ashes  and  all  fire  again 
Thrice    in   a  second,  felt  him  tremble 

too, 
And  heard  him  muttering,  **  So  like,  so 

like  : 
She  never  had  a  sister.     I  knew  none. 
Some  cousin  of  his  and  hers — O  God, 

so  like!" 
And  then  he  suddenly  ask'd  her  if  she 

were. 
$he  shook,  and  cast  her  eyes  down,  and 

was  dumb. 
And  then  some  other  question'd  if  she 

came 
From  foreign   lands,  and  still  she  did 

not  speak. 
Another,  if  the  boy  were  hers :  but  she 
To   all   their  queries  answer'd  not  a 

word. 
Which  made  the  amazement  more,  till 

one  of  them 
Said,  shuddering,  "  Her  spectre !  "  But 

his  friend 
Replied,   in  half  a  whisper,  "  Not  at 

least 
The  spectre  that   will  speak  if  spoken 

to. 
Terrible  pity,  if  one  so  beautiful 
Prove,  as  I  almost  dread  to  find  her, 

dumb  I " 


But  Julian,   sitting  by  her,  answer'd 

all  : 
"  She  is  but-  dumb,  because  in  her  you 

see 
That  faithful   servant  whom  we   spoke 

about, 
Obedient  to  her  second  master  now  ; 
Which    will  not  last,     I  have  here  to- 
night a  guest 
So  bound   to   me  by  common  love  and 

loss — 
What !    shall  I  bind  him  more  ?  in  his 

behalf, 
vShall  I  exceed  the  Persian,  giving  him 
That  which  of  all  things  is  the  dearest 

to  me, 


4^6 


THE  GOLDEN  SUPPER. 


Not  only  showing  ?  and  he  himself  pro- 
nounced 

That  my  rich  gift  is  wholly  mine  to 
give. 

"  Now  all  be  dumb,  and  promise  all 

of  you 
Not  to  break  in  on  what  I  say  by  word 
Or  whisper,  while  I   show  you   all  my 

heart." 
And  then  began  the  story  of  his  love 
As  here  to-day,  but  not  so  wordily — 
The    passionate    moment  would   not 

suffer  that — 
Past   thro'  his   visions    to  the  burial ; 

thence 
Down   to  this  last  strange  hour  in  his 

own  hall  ; 
And  then  rose  up,  and  with  him  all  his 

guests  [he. 

Once  more  as  by- enchantment  ;  all  but 
Lionel,  who  fain  had  risen,   but  fell 

again, 
And  sat  as  if  in  chains — to  whom  he 

said  : 

"  Take  my  free  gift,  my  cousin,  for 

your  wife  : 
And  were  it  only  for  the  giver's  sake, 
And  tho'  she  seems  so  like  the  one  you 

lost. 
Yet  cast  her  not  away  so  suddenly. 
Lest  there  be  none  left  here  to  bring, 

her  back  : 
I  leave  this  land  forever."     Here  he 

ceased. 


Then  taking  his  dear  lady  by  one 
hand. 

And  bearing  on  one  arm  the  noble 
babe, 

He  slowly  brought  them  both  to  Lionel. 

And  there  the  widower  husband  and 
dead  wife 

Rush'd  each  at  each  with  a  cry,  that 
rather  seem'd 

For  some  new  death  than  for  a  life 
renew'd  ; 

At  this  the  very  babe  began  to  wail  ; 

At  once  they  turn'd,  and  caught  and 
brought  him  in 

To  their  charm'd  circle,  and,  half  kill- 
ing him 

With  kisses,  round  him  closed  and 
claspt  again. 

But  Lionel,  when  at  last  he  freed  him- 
self 

From  wife  and  child,  and  lifted  up  a 
face 

All  over  glowing  with  the  sun  of  life, 

And  love,  and  boundless  thanks — the 
sight  of  this 

So  frighted  our  good  friend,  that  turn- 
ing to  me 

And  saying,  "  It  is  over  t  let  usgo"— 

There  were  our  horses  ready  at  the 
doors — 

We  bade  them  no  farewell,  but  mount- 
ing these 

He  past  forever  from  his  native  land  ; 

And  I  with  him,  my  Julian  back  to 
mine. 


ADDITIONAL    POEMS. 


Note  —The  Poems  which  follow  include  all  those  which  have  been  omitted  by  the  author 
from  his  latest  revised  editions,  or  never  acknowledged  by  him.  They  are  here  printed,  be- 
cause, although  unsanctioned  by  Mr.  Tennyson,  they  have  recently  been  collected  from  various 
sources,  and  printed  in  A  tnerica. 


TIMBUCTOO* 

"  Deep  in  that  lion-haunted  inland  lies 
A  mystic  chy,  goal  of  high  emprise." 

—Chapman. 

I   STOOD  upon  the    Mountain  which 

o'erlooks 
The  narrow  seas,  whose  rapid  interval 
Parts  Afric  from  green  Europe,  when 

the  Sun 
Had    fall'n    below  th'   Atlantic,   and 

above 
The  silent  heavens  were  blench'd  with 

fairy  light. 
Uncertain  whether  fairy  light  or  cloud, 
Flowing  Southward,  and  the  chasms  of 

deep,  deep  blue 
Slumber'd  unfathomable,  and  the  stars 
Were  flooded  over  with  clear  glory 

and  pale. 
I  gazed  upon  the  sheeny  coast  beyond. 
There   where   the  Giant  of  old  Time 

infix'd 
The  limits  of  his  prowess,  pillars  high 
Long  time  erased  from  earth :  even  as 

the  Sea 
When  weary  of  wild  inroad  buildeth 

up 
Huge    mounds  whereby  to    stay  his 

yeasty  waves. 
And  much  I  mused  on  legends  quaint 

and  old 


*  A  Poem  which  obtained  the  Chancellor's 
Medal  at  the  Cambridge  Commencement, 
MDCCCXXJX.     By  A.  Tennyson,  of  Trinity 

Collecrc. 


Which  whilome  won  the  hearts  of  all 

on  earth 
Towards  their  brightness,  ev'n  as  flame 

draws  air;  [man 

But  had  their  being  in   the   heart  o' 
As  air  is  th'  life  of  flame :  and  thou 

wert  then 
A  centred  glory-circled  memory, 
Divinest  Atalantis,  whom  the  waves 
Have  buried  deep,  and  thou  of  later 

name, 
Imperial  Eldorado,  roof'd  with  gold: 
Shadows  to  which,  despite  all  shocks 

of  change, 
All  on-set  of  capricious  accident, 
Men  clung  with  yearning  hope  which 

would  not  die. 
As  when  in  some  great  city  where  the 

walls 
Shake,   and   the  streets  with  ghastly 

faces  thronged. 
Do  utter  forth  a  subterranean  voice, 
Among  the  inner  columns  far  retired 
At  midnight,  in  the  lone  Acropolis, 
Before  the  awful  genius  of  the  place 
Kneels  the  pale  Priestess  in  deep  faith, 

the  while 
Above  her  head  the  weak  lamp  dips 

and  winks 
Unto  the  fearful  summoning  without  ; 
Nathless  she  ever  clasps  the  marble 

knees, 
Bathes  the  cold  hand  with  tears,  and 

gazeth  on 
Those  eyes  which  wear  no  light  but 

that  wherewith 
Her  fantasy  informs  them. 


458 


TIME  UC  TOO. 


Where  are  ye, 

Thrones   of  the   Western   wave,  fair 
Islands  green  ? 

Where  are  your  moonlight  halls,  your 
cedarn  glooms, 

The  blossoming  abysses  of  your  hills  ? 

Your  flowering  capes,  and  your  gold- 
sanded  bays 

Blown  round  with  happy  airs  of  odor- 
ous winds  ? 

Where    are  the  infinite  ways,  which, 
seraph-trod. 

Wound   through    your  great   Elysian 
solitudes, 

Whose   lowest  depths  were,   as  with 
visible  love, 

Filled  with  Divine  effulgence,  circum- 
fused, 

Flowing  between  the   clear  and   pol- 
ished stems, 

And  ever  circling  round  their  emerald 
cones 

In  coronals  and  glories,  such  as  gird 

The  unfading  foreheads  of  the  Saints 
in  Heaven  ? 

For    nothing    visible,   they    say,   had 
birth 

In  that  blest  ground,  but  it  was  played 
about 

With    its    peculiar    glory.      Then    I 
raised 

My  voice  and  cried,  "  Wide  Afric,  doth 
thy  Sun 

Lighten,  thy  hills  enfold  a  city  as  fair 

As  those  which  starred  the  night  o'  the 
elder  world  ? 

Or  is  the  rumor  of  thy  Timbuctoo 

A  dream  as  frail  as  those  of  ancient 
time  ? " 
A  curve  of  whitening,  flashing,  ebb- 
ing light  ! 

A  rustling  of  white  wings  !  the  bright 
descent 

Of  a  young  Seraph  !  and  he  stood  be- 
side me 

There  on  the  ridge,  and  looked  into 
my  face 

With  his  unutterable,  shining  orbs, 

So  that  with  hasty  motion  I  did  veil 

My  vision  with  both  hands,  and  saw 
before  me 


Such  colored  spots  as  dance  athwart 

the  eyes 
Of  those  that  gaze  upon  the  noonday 

Sun. 
Girt  with  a  zone  of  flashing  gold  be- 
neath 
His  breast,  and  compassed  round  about 

his  brow 
With    triple     arch    of    everchanging 

bows. 
And   circled   with  the  glory  of  living 

light 
And  alternation  of  all  hues,  he  stood. 
"O   child  of  man,   why   muse   you 

here  alone 
Upon  the  Mountain,  on  the  dreams  of 

old 
Which   filled   the   earth  with   passing 

loveliness, 
Which   flung   strange    music    on   the 

howling  winds, 
And  odors  rapt  from  remote  Paradise  } 
Thy  sense  is  clogged  with  dull  mor- 
tality : 
Open  thine  eyes  and  see." 

I  looked,  but  not 
Upon  his  face,  for  it  was  wonderful 
With  its  exceeding  brightness,  and  the 

light 
Of  the  great  Angel  Mind  which  looked 

from  out 
The  starry  glowing  of  his  restless  eyes. 
I  felt  my  soul  grow  mighty,  and  my 

spirit 
With  supernatural  excitation  bound 
Within  me,  and  my  mental  eye  grew 

large 
With   such   a   vast   circumference    of 

thought, 
That  in  my  vanity  I  seemed  to  stand 
Upon  the   outward  verge   and  bound 

alone 
Of  full  beatitude.      Each  failing  sense, 
As  with  a  momentary  flash  of  light, 
Grew  thrillingly  distinct  and  keen.     I 

saw 
The  smallest  grain  that  dappled  the 

dark  earth, 
The  indistinctest  atom  in  deep  air. 
The  Moon's  white  cities,  and  the  opa? 

width 


Of  her  small  glowing  lakes,  her  silver 

heights 
Unvisited  with  dew  of  vagrant  cloud, 
And    the     unsounded,     undescended 

depth 
Of  her    black    hollows.      The    clear 

galaxy 
Shorn  of  its  hoary  lustre,  wonderful. 
Distinct  and  vivid  with  sharp  points  of 

light, 
Blaze    within    blaze,   an    unimagined 

depth 
And  harmony  of  planet-girded  suns 
And  moon-encircled  planets,  wheel  in 

wheel, 
Arched  the  wan  sapphire.     Nay — the 

hum  of  men, 
Or  other  things  talking  in  unknown 

tongues. 
And  notes    of    busy  life    in    distant 

worlds  [ear. 

Beat  like  a  far  wave  on  my  anxious 
A  maze  of  piercing,  trackless,  thrill- 
ing thoughts. 
Involving  and    embracing  each  with 

each. 
Rapid  as  fire,  inextricably  linked, 
Expanding  momently  with  every  sight 
And  sound  which  struck  the   palpita- 
ting sense, 
The  issue  of  strong  impulse,  hurried 

through 
The  riven  rapt  brain  ;  as  when  in  some 

large  lake 
From   pressure   of  descendent  crags, 

which  lapse 
Disjointed,  crumbling  from  their  parent 

slope 
At  slender  interval,  the  level  calm 
Is  ridged  with  restless  and  increasing 

spheres 
Which  break  upon  each  other,  each 

th'  effect 
Of  separate   impulse,  but  more   fleet 

and  strong 
Than  its  precursor,  till  the  eye  in  vain 
Amid   the  wild  unrest    of   swimming 

shade 
Dappled  with  hollow  and  alternate  rise 
Of  interpenetrated  arc,  would  scan 
Definite  round. 


I  know  not  if  I  shape 
These  things  with  accurate  similitude 
From  visible   objects,  for  but  dimly 

now, 
Less  vivid  than  a  half-forgotten  dream, 
The  memory  of  that  mental  excellence 
Comes  o'er  me,  and  it  may  be  I  en- 
twine 
The  indecision  of  my  present  mind 
With  its  past  clearness,  yet  it  seems  to 

me 
As    even   then   the  torrent  of  quick 

thought 
Absorbed  me  from  the  nature  of  itself 
With  its  own  fleetness.     Where  is  he, 

that  borne 
Adown    the    sloping    of    an    arrowy 

stream. 
Could  link  his  shallop  to  the  fleeting 

edge. 
And   muse   midway   with  philosophic 

calm 
Upon  the  wondrous  laws  which  regu- 
late 
The  fierceness  of  the  bounding  ele- 
ment ? 
My  thoughts  which  long  had  grov- 
elled in  the  slime 
Of  this  dull  world,  like  dusky  worms 

which  house 
Beneath  unshaken  waters,  but  at  once 
Upon   some    earth-awakening   day   of 

Spring 
Do  pass  from  gloom  to  glory,  and  aloft 
Winnow  the  purple,  bearing  on  both 

sides 
Double  display  of  star-lit  wings,  which 

burn 
Fan-like    and    fibred    with    intensest 

r     bloom ; 
Even  so  my  thoughts  erewhile  so  low, 

now  felt 
Unutterable  buoyancy  and  strength 
To    bear    them   upward   through   the 

trackless  fields 
Of  undefined  existence  far  and  free. 
Then   first    within    the     South   me- 
thought  I  saw 
A  wilderness  of  spires,  and  crystal  pile 
Of  rampart   upon  rampart,  dome  on 
dome, 


46o 


TIME  UC  TOO. 


Illimitable  range  of  battlement 

On  battlement,  and  the  Imperial  height 

Of  canopy  o'ercanopied. 

Behind 
In  diamond  light   upspring   the    daz- 
zling peaks 
Of  Pyramids,  as  far  surpassing  earth's 
As  heaven  than  earth  is  fairer.     Each 

aloft 
Upon  his    narrowed    eminence  bore 

globes 
Of  wheeling   suns,   or   stars,  or   sem- 
blances 
Of  either,  showering  circular  abyss 
Of  radiance.      But   the   glory   of   the 

place 
Stood  out  a  pillared  front  of  burnished 

gold, 
Interminably  high,  if  gold  it  were 
C)r  metal  more  ethereal,  and  beneath 
Two  doors  of  blinding  brilliance,  where 

no  gaze 
Might  rest,  stood   open,  and  the   eye 

could  scan. 
Through   lengths ^of  porch   and  valve 

and  boundless  hall. 
Part  of  a  throne  of  fiery  flame,  where- 

from 
The  snowy  skirting  of  a.garment  hung. 
And  glimpse   of  multitude   of   multi- 
tudes 
That  ministered  around  it — if  I  saw 
These  th'n^s  distinctly,  for  my  human 

brain 
Staggered  beneath  the  vision,  and  thick 

night 
Came  down  upon  my  eyelids,  and  I  fell. 
With  ministering  hand  he  raised  me 

up: 
Then   with   a  mournful   and   ineffable 

smile, 
Which   but  to  look  ©n  for  a  moment 

filled 
My  eyes  with  irresistible  sweet  tears, 
In  accents  of  majestic  melody, 
Like  a  swoln  river's  gushings   in   still 

night  \ 

Mingled  with  floating  music,   thus  he 

spake  : 
"  There  is  no  mightier   Spirit  than  I 

to  sway 


The  heart  of  man :   and  teach  him  to 

attain 
By  shadowing  forth  the  Unattainable  ; 
And  step  by  step  to  scale  that  mighty 

stair 
Whose    landing-place   is  wrapt  about 

with  clouds 
Of  glory  of  heaven.*     With  earliest 

light  of  Spring, 
And  in  the  glow  of  sallow  Summertide, 
And  in  red  Autumn  when  the  winds  are 

wild 
With  gambols,  and  when    full-voiced 

Winter  roofs 
The   headlands  with    inviolate    white 

snow, 
I  play  about  his  heart  a  thousand  ways, 
Visit  his  eyes  with  visions,  and  his  ears 
With  harmonies  of  wind  and  wave  and 

wood, 
— Of  winds  which  tells  of  waters,  and 

of  waters 
Betraying  the  close  kisses  of  the  wind — 
And  win  him  unto  me  :  and  few  there 

be 
So  gross  of  heart  who  have  not  felt  and 

known 
A  higher  than  they  see  :  they  with  dim 

eyes 
Behold  me  darkling.     Lo  I  I  have  given 

thee 
To  understand  my  presence,  and  to  feel 
My  fulness  :  I  have  filled  thy  lips  with 

power. 
I  have  raised  thee  nigher  to  the  spheres 

of  heaven, 
Man's  first,  last  home :  and  thou  with 

ravished  sense 
Listenest  the  lordly  music  flowing  from 
The  illimitable  years.     I  am  the  Spirit, 
The    permeating   life   which   courseth 

through 
All  th'  intricate  and  labyrinthine  veins 
Of  the  great  vine  of  Fable,  which,  out- 
spread 
With  growth   of  shadowing   leaf  and 

clusters  rare, 
Reacheth  to  every  corner  under  heaven, 


►    *  "  Be   ye  perfect,  even   as  your  Father  in 
heaven  is  perfect," 


ELEGIACS. 


461 


Deep-rooted  in  the  living  soil  of  truth  ; 
Sc  that  men's  hopes  and  fears  take  ref- 
uge in 
The     fragrance    of     its    complicated 

glooms, 
And  cool  impeached  twilights.     Child 

of  man, 
Seest  thou  yon  river,  whose  translucent 

wave, 
Forth  issuing  from  the  darkness,  wind- 

eth  through 
The  argent  streets  o'  the  city,  imaging 
The  soft  inversion  of    her  tremulous 

domes. 
Her  gardens  frequent  with  the  stately 

palm,  [bells, 

Hei  pagods  hung  with  music  of  sweet 
Her  obelisks  of  ranged  chrysolite, 
Minarets   and    towers?     Lo!    how   he 

passeth  by. 
And  gulfs   himself    in    sands,   as   not 

enduring 
To    carry   through    the    world    those 

waves,  which  bore 


The  reflex  of  ray  city  in  their  depth. 
O  city  !  O  latest  throne !  where  I  was 

raised 
To  be  a  mystery  of  loveliness 
Unto  all  eyes,  the  time  is  wellnigh  come 
When  I  must  render  up  this   glorious 

home 
To  keen  Discovery  ;  soon  yon  brilliant 

towers 
Shall  darken  with  the  waving  of  her 

wand ; 
Darken   and    shrink    and    shiver   into 

huts. 
Black  specks  amid  a  waste  of  dreary 

sand, 
Low-built,   mud-walled,  barbarian  set- 
tlements. 
How  changed  from  this  fair  city  !" 

Thus  far  the  spirit : 
Then  parted  heavenward  on  the  wing  : 

and  I 
Was  left  alone  on  Calpe,  and  the  moon 
Had  fallen  from  the  night,  and  all  was 

dark! 


POEMS   PUBLISHED    IN  THE   EDITION    OF    1830, 
AND  OMITTED  IN  LATER  EDITIONS. 


ELEGIACS. 


Low-flowing  breezes  are  roaming  the 
broad  valley  dimmed  in  the  gloam- 
ing : 

Thro'  the  black-stemmed  pines  only 
the  far  river  shines. 

Creeping  through  blossomy  rushes  and 
bowers  of  rose-blowing  bushes, 

Down  by  the  poplar  tall  rivulets  bab- 
ble and  fall. 

Barketh  the  shepherd-dog  cheerily; 
the  grasshopper  carolleth  clearly ; 

Deeply  the  turtle  cooes;  shrilly  the 
owlet  halloo? ; 

Wnids  creep  ;  dews  fall  chilly  :  in  her 
first  sleep  earth  breathes  stilly : 


Over  the  pools  in  the  burn  water  o;iiat 
murmur  and  mourn. 

Sadly  the  far  kine  loweth :  the   glim- 
mering water  outfloweth : 

Twin  peaks  shadowed  with  pine  slc);)e 
to  the  dark  hyaline. 

Low-throned  Hesper  is  stayed  betw 
the  two  peaks  ;  but  the  Naiad 

Throbbing  in  wild  unrest  holds  him  be- 
neath in  her  breast. 

The  ancient  poetess  singeth   that  Hes 
perus  all  things  bringeth, 

Smoothing   the   wearied   mind :    bring 
me  my  love,  Rosalind. 

Thou   comest  morning  and  even ;  she 
cometh  not  morning  or  even. 

False-eyed    Hesper,   unkind,  where  is 
my  sweet  Rosalind  ? 


462 


SUPPOSED  CONFESSIONS. 


THE  "  HOW  "  AND  THE  «  WHY." 


I  AM  any  man*s  suitor, 

If  any  will  be  my  tutor : 

Some  say  this  life  is  pleasant, 
Some  think  it  speedeth  fast, 

In  time  there  is  no  present, 

In  eternity  no  future, 
In  eternity  no  past. 
We  laugh,  we  cry,  we  are  born,  we 

die, 
Who  will  riddle  me  the  how  and  the 

why  ? 

The  bulrush  nods  unto  its  brother. 
The  wheatears  whisper  to  each  other : 
What  is  it  they  say?    what  do  they 

there  ? 
Why  two  and   two  make  four.'  why 

round  is  not  square  ? 
Why  the  rock  stands  still,  and  the  light 

clouds  fly  ? 
Why  the  heavy  oak  groans,  and  the 

white  willows  sigh  ? 
Why  deep  is  not  high,  and  high  is  not 

deep  ? 
Whether    we  wake    or    whether    we 

sleep  ? 
Whether  we  sleep,  or  whether  we  die  ? 
How  you  are  you  ?  why  I  am  I .? 
Who  will  riddle  me  the  how  and  the 

why  ? 

The  world  is  somewhat;  it  goes  on 

somehow : 
But  what  is  the  meaning  of  then  and 

noiv  ? 
I  feel  there  is  something ;  but  how 

and  what  ? 
I  know  there  is  somewhat  :  but  what 

and  why? 
I  cannot  tell  if  that  somewhat  be  I. 
The      little      bird      pipeth — '*  why  ? 

why  ? " 
In   the   summer  woods  when  the  sun 

falls  low, 
And  the  great  bird  sits  on  the  opposite 

bough. 
And  stares    in  his    face   and  shouts 

"  how  ?   how  ? " 


And  the  black  owl  scuds  down  the 

mellow  twilight, 
And  chants  "  how  ?  how  ? "   the  whole 

of  the  night, 

Why^  the  life  goes  out  when  the  blood 
is  spilt? 
What  the  life  is  ?  where  the  soul  mav 
lie  ? 
Why  a  church  is  with  a  steeple  built; 
And  a  house  with  a  chimney-pot  ? 
Who  will  riddle  roe  the  how  and  the 
what  ? 
Who  will  riddle  me  the  what  and 
the  why  ? 


SUPPOSED  CONFESSIONS 

OF    A    SECOND-RATE    SENSITIVE    MIND 
NOT  IN   UNITY   WITH   ITSELF 

0  God  !  my  God  !  have  mercy  now. 

1  faint,  I  fall.     Men  say  that  thou 
Didst  die  for  me,  for  such  as  me. 
Patient  of  ill,  and  death,  and  scorn. 
And  that  my  sin  was  as  a  thorn 
Among  the  thorns  that  girt  thy  brow. 
Wounding  thy  soul. — That  even  now, 
In  this  extremest  misery 

Of  ignorance,  I  should  require 

A  sign  !  and  if  a  bolt  of  fire 

Would  rive  the   slumberous  summer 

noon 
While  I  do  pray  to  thee  alone. 
Think  my  belief  would  stronger  grov\  I 
Is  not  my  human  pride  brought  low  ? 
The  boastings  of  my  spirit  still  ? 
I  The  joy  I  had  in  my  free  will 
All    cold,  and    dead,   and   corpse-like 

grown  ? 
And  what  is  left  to  me,  but  thou, 
And  faith  in  thee  ?     Men  pass  me  by, 
Christians  with  happy  countenances — 
And  children  all  seem  full  of  thee ! 
And    women      smile     with    saintlike 

glances 
Like   thine   own    mother's    when  she 

bowed 
Above  thee,  on  that  happy  morn 
When  angels  spake  to  rnen  aloud. 


SUPPOSED  CONFESSIONS. 


463 


And  thou  and  peace  to  earth  were  born. 
Goodwill  to  me  as  well  as  all — 
— I  one  of  them :  my  brothers  thty  ; 
Brothers  in  Ch-¥i5t-^a  world  of  peace, 

A  confidence,  day  after  day ; 
And  trust  and  hope  till  things  should 
cease. 

And  then  one  Heaven  receive  us  all. 

How  sweet  to  have  a  common  faith! 
To  hold  a  common  scorn  of  death  ! 
And  at  a  burial  to  hear 

The  creaking  cords  which  wound  and 
eat 
Into  my  human  heart,  whene'er 
Earth  goes  to  earth,  with  grief,  not  fear, 

With   hopeful    grief,   were    passing 
sweet ! 
A  grief  not  uninformed,  and  dull, 
Hearted  with  hope,  of  hope  as  full 
As  is  the  blood  with  life,  or  night 
And  a  dark  cloud  with  rich  moonlight. 
To  stand  beside  a  grave,  and  see 
The  red  small  atoms  wherewith  we 
Are    built,   and   smile    in    calm,   and 

say — 
"These  little  motes  and  grains  shall  be 
Clothed  on  with  immortality 
More  glorious  than  the  noon  of  day. 

All  that  is  pass'd  into  the  flowers, 
And  into  beasts  and  other  men, 
And  all  the  Norland  whirlwind  shsower 
From  open  vaults,  and  all  the  sea 
O'erwashes  with  sharp  salts,  again 
Shall  fleet  together  all,' and  be 
Indued  with  immortality. 

Thrice  happy  state  again  to  be 
The  trustful  infant  on  the  knee  ! 
Who  lets  his  waxen  fingers  play 
About  his  mother's  neck,  and  knows 
Nothing  beyond  his  mother's  eyes. 
They  comfort  him  by  night  and  day, 
They  light  his  little  life  alway  ; 
He  hath  no  thought  of  coming  woes 
He  hath  no  care  of  life  or  death. 
Scarce  outward  signs  of  joy  arise. 
Because  the  Spirit  of  happiness 
And  perfect  rest  so  inward  is  ; 
And  loveth  so  his  innocent  heart, 
Her  temple  and  her  place  of  birth. 
Where  she  would  ever  wish  to  dwell 


Life  of  tae  fountain  there,  beneath 
Its  salient  springs,  and  far  apart, 
Hating  to  wander  out  on  earth, 
Or  breathe  into  the  hollow  air. 
Whose  chill  ness  would  mak§  visible 
Her  subtile,  warm,  and  golden  breath, 
Which  mixing  with  the  infant's  blood, 
Full  fills  him  with  beatitude. 
Oh !  sure  it  is  a  special  care 
Of  God,  to  fortify  from  doubt. 
To  arm  in  proof,  and  guard  about 
With  triple  mailed  trust,  and  clear 
Delight,  the  infant's  dawning  year. 
Would  that  my  gloomed  fancy  were 
As  thine,  my  mother,  when  with  brows 
Propped  on  thv  knees,  mv  hands  up- 
held 
In  thine,  I  listened  to  thy  vows, 
For  me  outpoured  in  holiest  prayer — . 
For  me  unworthy  ! — and  beheld 
The  mild  deep  eyes  upraised,  that  knew 
The  beauty  and  repose  of  faith, 
And  the  clear  spirit  shining  through. 
Oh  !  wherefore  do  we  grow  awry 
From  roots  which  strike  so  deep  ?  why 

dare 
Paths  in  the  desert  ?    Could  not  I 
Bow  myself  down,   where   thou  hast 

knelt. 
To  th'  earth — until  the  ice  would  melt 
Here,  and  I  feel  as  thou  hast  felt  ? 
What  Devil  had  the  heart  to  scathe 
Flowers  thou  hadst  reared — to  brush 

the  dew 
From  thine  own  lily,  when  thy  grave 
Was  deep,  my  mother,  in  the  clay  ? 
Myself?    Is  it  thus.?    Myself.?    Hr.d  I 
So  little  love  for  thee  ?    But  why 
Prevailed  not  thy  pure  prayers  ?    Why 

pray 
To  one  who  heeds  not,  who  can  save 
But  will  not .?  Great  in  faith,  and  strong 
Against  the  grief  of  circumstance 
Wert  thou,  and  yet  unheard  ?    What  if 
Thou  pleadest  still,  and  seest  me  drive 
Through  utter  dark  a  full-sailed  skiff, 
Unpiloted  i'  the  echoing  dance 
Of  reboant  whirlwinds,  stooping  low 
Unto  the  death,  not  sunk  !  I  know 
At  matins  and  at  evensong,  ' 

That  thou,  if  thou  wert  yet  alive, 


In   deep   and   daily   prayers    wouldst 

strive  "    " 

To  reconcile  me  with  thy  God. 
Albeit,  my  hope  is  gray,  and  cold 
At  heart,  thou  wouldest  murmur  still 
*'  Bring  tnis  lamb  back  into  thy  fold, 
My  Lord,  if  so  it  be  thy  will." 
Wouldst  tell  me  I  must  brook  the  rod, 
And  chastisement  of  human  pride  : 
That  pride,  the  sin  of  devils,  stood 
Betwixt  me  and  the  light  of  God ! 
That  hitherto  I  had  defied. 
And  had  rejected  God — that  Grace 
Would  drop  from  his    o'erbrimming 

love. 
As  manna  on  my  wilderness, 
If  I  would  pray — that  God  would  move 
And  strike  the  hard,    hard  rock,  and 

thence, 
Sweet  in  their  utmost  bitterness, 
Would  issue  tears  of  penitence 
Which  would  keep  green  hope's  life- 
Alas  ! 
I  think  that  pride  hath  now  no  place 
Or  sojourn  in  me.     I  am  void, 
Dark,  formless,  utterly  destroyed. 

Why  not  believe  then  ?     Why  not  yet 
Anchor  thy  frailty  there,  where  man 
Hath  moored  and  rested  ?    Ask  the  sea 
At   midnight,   when    the   crisp    slope 

waves 
After  a  tempest,  rib  and  fret 
The  broad-imbased  beach,  why  he 
Slumbers  not  like  a  mountain  tarn.? 
Wherefore  his  ridges  are  not  curls 
And  ripples  of  an  inland  meer  ? 
Wherefore  he  moaneth  thus,  nor  can 
Draw  down  into  his  vexed  pools 
All  that  blue  heaven  which  hues  and 

paves 
The  other  ?    I  am  too  forlorn. 
Too  shaken  :  my  own  weakness  fools 
My  judgment,  and  my  spirit  whirls, 
Moved  from  beneath  with   doubt  and 

fear, 

*  Yet,"  said  I,  in  my  morn  of  youth. 
The  unsunned  freshness  of  my  strength 
When  I  went  forth  in  quest  of  truth, 
"  It  is  man's  privilege  to  doubt, 


If  so  be  that  from  doubt  at  length. 
Truth    may  stand   forth   unmoved  oi 

-.change, 
An  image  with  pro^i^lgpnt  brows, 
And  perfect  limbs,  as  from  the  siorm 
Of  running  fires  and  fluid  range 
Of  lawless  airs  at  last  stood  out 
This  excellence  and  solid  form 
Of  constant  beauty.     For  the  Ox 
Feeds  in  the  herb,  and  sleeps,  or  fills 
The  horned  valleys  all  about. 
And  hollows  of  the  fringed  hills 
In  summer  heats,  with  placid  lows 
Unfearing,  till  his  own  blood  flows 
About  his  hoof.     And  in  the  flocks 
The  lamb  rejoiceth  in  the  year. 
And  raceth  freely  with  his  fere. 
And  answers  to  his  mother's  calls 
From  the  flowered  furrow.     In  a  time, 
Of  which  he  wots  not,  run  short  pains 
Through  his   warm   heart :  and   then, 

from  whence 
He  knows  not,  on  his  light  there  falls 
A  shadow;  and  his  native  slope 
Where  he  was  wont  to  leap  and  climb, 
Floats  from  his  sick  and  filmed  eyes, 
And  something  in  the  darkness  draws 
His  forehead  earthward,  and  he  dies. 
Shall  man  live  thus,  in  joy  and  hope 
As  a  young  lamb,  who  cannot  dre 
Living,  but  that  he  shall  live  on  .-* 
Shall  we  not  look  into  the  laws 
Of  life  and  death,  and  things  that  seem, 
And  things  that  be,  and  analyze 
Our  double  nature,  and  compare 
All  creeds  till  we  have  found  the  one, 
If  one  there  be  ,'"'     Ay  me!  I  fear 
All  may  not  doubt,  but  everywhere 
Some  must  clasp  Idols.    Yet,  my  God 
Whom  call  I  Idol?     Let  thy  dove 
Shadow  me  over,  and  my  sins 
Be  unremembered,  and  thy  love 
Enlighten  me.     O  teach  me  yet 
Somewhat  before  the  heavy  clod 
Weighs  on  me,  and  the  busy  fret 
Of  that  sharp-headed  worm  begins 
In  the  gross  blackness  underneath. ' 

O  weary  life  !  O  weary  death  ! 

O  spirit  and  heart  made  desolate  I 

O  damned  vacillating  state ! 


THE  BURIAL  OF  LOVE. 

His  eyes  in  eclipse, 
Pale-cold  his  lips, 
The  light  of  his  hopes  jsinfed. 
Mute  his  .<;£^igtie, 
His  bow  unstrung 
With  the  tears  he  hath  shed, 
Backward  drooping  his  graceful   head, 
Love  is  dead  : 
His  last  arrow  is  sped ; 
He  hath  not  another  dart ; 
Go — carry  him  to  his  dark  deathbed ; 
Bury  him  in  the  cold,  cold  heart — 
Love  is  dead. 

O  truest  love  !  art  thou  forlorn, 
And  unrevenged  ?  thy  pleasant  wiles 
Forgotten,  and  thine  innocent  joy? 
Shall  hollow-hearted  apathy, 
The  cruellest  form  of  perfect  scorn, 
With  languor  of  most  hateful  smiles, 
Forever  write. 
In  the  withered  light 
Of  the  tearless  eye. 
An  epitaph  that  all  may  spy  ? 
No !  sooner  she  herself  shall  die. 

For  her  the  showers  shall  not  fall, 
Nor  the  round  sun  shine  that  shineth 
to  all ; 
Her  light  shall  into  darkness  change; 
'For  her  the  green  grass  shall  not  spring. 
Nor  the  rivers  flow,  nor  the  sweet  birds 
sing. 
Till  Love  have  his  full  reven?;e. 


TO 


Sainted  Juliet !  dearest  name  ! 
If  to  love  be  life  alone, 
Divinest  Juliet, 
I  love  thee,  and  live  ;  and  yet 
Love  unreturned  is  like  the  fragrant 
flame 
Folding  the  slaughter  of  the  sacrifice 
Offered  to    gods    upon  an   altar- 
throne  ; 
My  heart  is  lighted  at  thine  eyes. 
Changed  into  fire,  and  blown  about 
with  sighs. 


••  SONG 


I*  THE  glooming  light 
Of  middle  night    ' 
So  cold  and  white, 
Worn   Sorrow   sits    by  the    moaning 
wave. 

Beside  her  are  laid 
Her  mattock  and  spade, 
For   she   hath  half    delved  her   own 
deep  grave. 

Alone  she  is  there  : 
The  white  clouds  drizzle :  her  hair  falls 
loose : 

Her  shoulders  are  bare  ;    • 
Her  tears  are  mixed  with  the  beaded 
dews. 


Death  standeth  by ; 
She  will  not  die  ; 
With  glazed  eye 
She   looks   at   her  grave     she  cannot 
sleep; 

Ever  alone 

She  maketh  her  moan: 
She  cannot  speak :  she  can  only  weep, 

For  she  will  not  hope. 
The  thick  snow  falls   on  her  flake  by 
flake, 

The  dull  wave   mourns  drwn 
the  slope, 
The  world  will  not  change,  and  her 
heart  will  not  break. 


SONG. 
I. 


The  lintwhite  and  the  throstlecock 
Have  voices  sweet  and  clear ; 
All  in  the  bloomed  May . 
They  from  the  blosmy  brere 
Call  to  the  fleeting  year, 
If  that  he  would  them  hear 

And  stay. 
Alas  !  that  one  so  beautiful 
Should  have  so  dul!  an  ear  > 


466 


NOTHING  WILL  DIE. 


Fair  year,  fair  year,  thy  children  call, 
But  thou  art  deaf  as  death ; 

All  in  the  bloomed  May. 
When  thy  light  perisheth 
That  from  thee  issueth, 
Our  life  evanisheth : 

O,  stay  ! 
Alas  i  that  lips  so  cruel-dumb 
Should  have  so  sweet  a  breath ! 

III.    - 

Fair  year,  with  brows  of  royal  love 
Thou  comest,  as  a  king, 

All  in  the  bloomed  May. 
*    Thy  golden  largess  fling. 
And  longer  hear  us  sing  ; 
Though  thou  art  fleet  of  wing, 

Yet  stay. 
Alas  !  that  eyes  so  full  of  light 
Should  be  so  wandering  ! 


Thy  locks  are  all  of  sunny  sheen 
In  rings  of  gold  yronne,* 

All  in  the  bloomed  May. 
We  pri'thee  pass  not  on; 
If  thou  dost  leave  the  sun, 
Delight  is  with  thee  gone. 

O,  stay  ! 
Thou  art  the  fairest  of  thy  feres, 
We  pri'thee  pass  not  on. 


SONG. 


Every  day  hath  its  night: 

Every  night  its  morn : 
Thorough  dark  and  bright 
Winged  hours  are  borne ; 
Ah !    welaway  ! 
Seasons  flower  and  fade ; 
Golden  calm  and  storm 
Mingle  day  by  day. 
There  is  no  bright  form 
Doth  not  cast  a  shade — 
Ah  !  welaway ! 


When  we  laugh,  and  our  mirth 

Apes  the  happy  vein, 
We're  so  kin  to  earth, 
Pleasaunce  fathers  pain — 
Ah  I  welaway  ! 
Madness  laugheth  loud : 
Laughter  bringeth  tears : 
Eyes  are  worn  away 
Till  the  end  of  fears 
Cometh  in  the  shroud, 
Ah !  welaway ! 


All  is  change,  woe  or  weal; 
Joy  is  Sorrow's  brother ; 
Grief  and  gladness  steal 
Symbols  of  each  other: 
Ah  !  welaway  ! 
Larks  in  heaven's  cope 
Sing  :  the  culvers  mourn 
All  the  livelong  day. 
Be  not  all  forlorn  : 
Let  us  weep  in  hope— 
Ah!  welaway! 


*  •'*  His  wisp^   hair  in  ringlis  was  yronne. 
Chaucer,  Knightes  Tale, 


NOTHING  WILL  DIE. 

When  will  the  streams  be  aweary  of 
flowing 
Under  my  eye  ? 
When    will   the    wind  be    aweary  of 
blowing 
Over  the  sky  ? 
When   will    the   clouds  be   aweary  of 

fleeting  .-' 
When  will  the  heart  be  aweary  of  beat* 
ing .? 
And  nature  die  ? 
Never,  O  never  !  nothing  will  die  j 
The  stream  Hows, 
The  wind  blows. 
The  cloud  fleets, 
The  heart  beats, 
Nothing  will  die. 

Nothing  will  die ; 

All  things  will  change 
Through  eternity. 

'Tis  the  world's  winter ; 


HERO  TO  LEANDER. 


467 


Autumn  and  summer 
Are  gone  long  ago. 
Earth  is  dry  to  the  centre, 

But  spring  a  new  comer — 
A  spring  rich  and  strange, 

Shall  make  the  winds  blow 
Round  and  round, 
Through  and  through, 
Here  and  there, 
Till  the  air 
And  the  ground 
Shall  be  fill'd  with  life  anew. 
The  world  was  never  made  ; 
It  will  change,  but  it  will  not  fade. 
So  let  the  wind  range ; 
For  even  and  morn 
Ever  will  be 
Through  eternity. 
Nothing  was  born; 
Nothing  will  die ; 
All  things  will  change. 


ALL  THINGS  WILL  DIE. 

Clearly  the  blue  river  chimes  in  its 
flowing 
Under  my  eye ; 
Warmly  and  broadly  the  south  winds 
are  blowing 
Over  the  sky. 
One  after  another  the  white  clouds  are 

fleeting ; 
Every    heart    this    May    morning    in 
joyance  is  beating 
Ful)  merrily; 
Yet  all  things  must  die. 
The  stream  will  cease  to  flow ; 
The  wind  will  cease  to  blow; 
The  clouds  will  cease  to  fleet ; 
The  heart  will  cease  to  beat ; 
For  all  things  must  die. 

All  things  must  die. 
Spring  will  come  nevermore. 

O,  vanity! 
Death  waiU  at  the  door. 
See  !  our  iriends  are  all  forsaking 
The  wine  and  merrymaking. 
We  are  called  -we  must  go. 
Laid  low,  very  low, 


In  the  dark  we  must  lie. 
The  merry  glees  are  still ; 
The  voice  of  the  bird 
Shall  no  more  be  heard. 
Nor  the  wind  on  the  hill. 
O,  misery  I 
Hark!  death  is  calling 
While  I  speak  to  ye, 
The  jaw  is  falling, 
The  red  cheek  paling, 
The  strong  limbs  failing  ; 
Ice  with  the  warm  blood  mixing; 
The  eyeballs  fixing. 
Nine  times  goes  the  passing  bell 
Ye  merry  souls,  farewell. 

The  old  earth 
Had  a  birth. 
As  all  men  know 
Long  ago. 
And  the  old  earth  must  die. 

So  let  the  warm  winds  range, 
And   the   blue    wave    beat   the 

shore ; 
For  even  and  morn 
Ye  will  never  see 
Through  eternity. 
All  things  were  born. 
Ye  will  come  nevermore, 
For  all  things  must  die. 


HERO  TO  LEANDER. 

O  GO  not  yet,  my  love  ! 

The  night  is  dark  and  vast ; 
The  white  moon  is  hid  in  her  heaven 
above. 

And  the  waves  climb  high  and  fast. 
O,  kiss  me,  kiss  me,  once  again, 

Lest  thy  kiss  should  be  the  last ! 
O  kiss  me  ere  we  part ; 
Grow  closer  to  my  heart ! 
My  heart  is   warmer  surely  than  the 
bosom  of  the  main. 
O  joy  !  O  bliss  of  blisses  ! 

My  heart  of  hearts  art  thou. 
Come  bathe  me  with  thy  kisses, 

My  eyelids  and  my  brow. 
Hark  how  the  wild  rain  hisses, 

And  the  loud  sea  roars  below- 


468 


THE  MYSTIC. 


Thj'  heart  beats  through  thy   rosy 
limbs, 

So  gladly  doth  it  stir  ; 
Thine  eye  in  drops  of  gladness  swims. 

I    have     bathed    tnee    wi^h    the 
pleasant  myrrh  ; 
Thy  locks  are  dripping  balm  ; 
Thou  shalt  not    wander  hence    to- 
night, 

I'll  stay  thee  with  my  kisses. 
To-night  the  roaring  brine 

Will  rend  thy  golden  tresses  ; 
The  ocean  with  the  morrow  light 
Will  be  both  blue  and  calm  : 
A.nd  the  billow  will  embrace  thee  with 
a  kiss  as  soft  as  mine. 
No  Western  odors  wander 

On  the  black  and  moaning  sea, 
And  when  thou  art  dead,  Leander, 

My  soul  must  follow  thee  ! 
O  go  not  yet,  my  love! 

Thy  voice  is  sweet  and  low  ; 
The  deep  salt  wave  breaks  in  above 

Those  marble  steps  below. 
The  turret-stairs  are  wet 

That  lead  into  the  sea. 
Leander  !  go  not  yet, 
The  pleasant  siars  have  set : 
O,  go  not,  go  not  yet, 

Or  I  will  follow  thee  ! 


THE  MYSTIC. 

Angels   have  talked   with  -him,  and 

showed  him  thrones : 
Ye  knew  him  not :  he  was  not  one  of 

ye, 

Ye  scorned  him  with  an  undiscerning 

scorn : 
Ye  could  not  read  the  marvel    in  his 

eye, 
The  still  serene  abstraction  :  he  hath 

felt 
The  vanities  of  after  and  before  ; 
Albeit,  his  spirit  and  his  secret  heart 
The    stern    experiences    of    converse 

lives, 
The    linked    woes    of    many   a    fiery 

change 


Had  purified,  and  chastened,  and  made 

free. 
Always  there  stood  before  him,  nighl 

and  day. 
Of  wayward  vary-colored  circumstance 
The  imperishable  presences  serene, 
Colossal,   without   form,  or    sense,  or 

sound, 
Dim  shadows  but  unwaning  presences 
Fourfaced  to  four  corners  of  the  sky  ; 
And  yet  again,  three  shadows,  fronting 

one, 
One  forward,  one  respectant,  three  but 

one ; 
And  yet  again,  again  and  evermore. 
For   the   two  first  were  not,  but  only 

seemed,  [hght. 

One  shadow  in  the  midst  of   a  great 
One  reflex  from  eternity  on  time. 
One    m;ghty  countenance   of    perfect 

calm. 
Awful  with  most  invariable  eyes. 
For  him  the  silent  congregated  hours, 
Daughters   of  time,  divinely  tall,  be- 
neath 
Severe  and  youthful  brows,  with  shin- 
ing eyes 
Smiling  a  godlike  smile  (the  innocent 

light 
Of  earliest  youth  pierced  through  and 

through  with  all 
Keen  knowledges  of  low-embowed  eld) 
Upheld,  and  ever  hold  aloft  the  cloud 
Which  droops  low-hung  on  either  gate 

of  life, 
Both  birth  and  death  :  he  in  the  centre 

fixt, 
Saw  far   on  each    side    through    the 

grated  gates 
Most   pale  and  clear  and   lovely  dis- 
tances. 
He  often  lying  broad  awake,  and  yet 
Remaining  from  the  body,  and  apart 
In  intellect  and  power  and  will,  hath 

heard 
Time   flowing   in   the    middle    of    the 

night. 
And  all  things  creeping   to   a  day  of 

doom. 
How  could  ye  know  him?     Ye  were 

yet  within 


CHORUS. 


469 


The  narrower  circle  :  he  had  wellnigh 

reached 
The  last,  which  with  a  region  of  white 

flame, 
Pure  without  heat,  into  a  larger  air 
Upburning,  and  an  ether  of  black  blue, 
[nvesteth  and  ingirds  all  other  lives. 


and 


THE  GRASSHOPPER. 


Voice  of  the  summer  wind, 

Joy  of  the  summer  plain, 

Life  of  the  summer  hours, 

Carol  clearly,  bound  along. 

No  Tithon  thou  as  poets  feign 

(Shame   fall  'em,  they  are  deaf 
blind), 

But  an  insect  lithe  and  strong, 

Bowing  the  seeded  summer  flowers. 

Prove  their  falsehood  and  thy  quar- 
rel, 
Vaulting  on  thine  airy  feet. 

Clap  thy  shielded  sides  and  carol, 
Carol  clearly,  chirrup  sweet. 
Thou  art  a  mailed  warrier  in  youth  and 
strength  complete 
Armed  cap-a-pie 
Full  fair  to  see  ; 
Unknowing  fear, 
Undreading  loss, 
A  gallant  cavalier, 
Sans peur  et  sans  reproch"^ 
In  sunlight  and  in  shadow, 
The  Bayard  of  the  meadow. 


I  would  dwell  with  thee, 

Merry  grasshopper, 
Thou  art  so  glad  and  free, 

And  as  light  as  air; 
1  hou  hast  no  sorrow  or  tears, 
Thou  hast  no  compt  of  years, 
No  withered  immortality, 
But  a  short  youth  sunny  and  free. 
Carol  clearly,  bound  along, 

Soon  thy  joy  is  over, 
A  summer  of  loud  song, 

And  slumbers  in  the  clover. 


What  hast  thou  to  do  with  evil 
In  thine  hour  of  love  and  revel, 

In  thy  heat  of  summer  pride, 
Pushing  the  thick  roots  aside 
Of  the  singing  flowered  grasses. 
That    brush    thee    with    their    silken 

tresses  ? 
What  hast  thou  to  do  with  evil. 
Shooting,  singing,  ever  springing 

In  and  out  the  emerald  glooms, 
Ever  leaping,  ever  singing, 

Lighting  on  the  goldenblooms  "i 


LOVE,  PRIDE,  AND  FORGET. 

FULNESS. 

Ere  yet  my  heart  was  sweet  Love's 

tomb, 
Love  labored  honey  busily. 
I  was  the  hive,  and  Love  the  bee. 
My  hear^  the  honeycomb. 
One  very  dark  and  chilly  night 
Pride  came  beneath  and  held  a  light. 

The  cruel  vapors  went  through  all, 
Sweet  Love  was  withered  in  his  cell : 
Pride  took   Love's  sweets,   and  by  a 

spell 
Did  change  them  into  gall ; 
And  Memory,  though  fed  by  Pride, 
Diu  wax  so  thin  on  gall, 
Awhile  she  scarcely  lived  at  all. 
What  marvel  that  she  died  ? 


CHORUS. 

IN    AN    UNPUBLISHED    DRAMA,   WRIT' 
TEN    VERY    EARLY. 

The  varied  earth,  the  moving  heaven. 

The  rapid  waste  of  roving  sea. 
The  fountain-pregnant  mountains  riven 

j^To  shapes  of  wildest  anarchy, 
By  secret  fire  and  midnight  storms 

That    wander     round    their    windy 
cones. 
The  subtle  life,  the  countless  forms 

Of  living  things,  the  wondrous  tones 


470 


LOVE  AND  SORROW. 


Of    man    and    beast  are  full    of 

THE  TEARS  OF  HEAVEN. 

strange 
Astonishment       and      boundless 

Heaven  weeps  above  the  earth  all 

change. 

night  till  morn. 

In  darkness  weeps  as  all  ashamed  to 

The  day,  the  diamonded  night, 

weep. 

The  echo,  feeble  child  of  sound, 

Because  the  earth  hath  made  her  state 

The  heavy  thunder's  griding  might, 
The  herald  lightning's  starry  bound, 

forlorn 

With  self-wrought  evil  of  unnumbered 

The  vocal  spring  of  bursting  bloom. 

years. 

The  naked  summer's  glowing  birth. 

And  doth  the  fruit  of  her  dishonor 

The  troublous  autumn's  sallow  gloom, 

reap. 

The  hoarhead  winter  paving  earth 

And  all  the  day  heaven  gathers  back 

"With   sheeny  white,   are   full     of 

her  tears. 

strange 

Into  her  own  blue  eyes  so  clear  and 

Astonishment       and      boundless 

deep. 

change 

And  showering  down  the  glory  of  light- 

some day, 

Each  sun  which  from  the  centre  flings 

Smiles   on   the   earth's  worn  brow  to 

Grand  music  and  redundant  fire, 

win  her  if  she  may. 

The  burning  belts,  the  mighty  rings, 

The  murm'rous  planets'  rolling  choir, 

• 

The  globe-filled  arch  that,  cleaving  air. 

LOVE  AND  SORROW. 

Lost  in  its  own  effulgence  sleeps. 

The  lawless  comets  as  they  glare 

0  MA.  I  DEN,  fresher  than  the  first  green 

And  thunder  through  the  sapphire 

leaf 

deeps 

With     which    the    fearful    springtide 

In  wayward  strength,  and  full  of 

flecks  the  lea, 

strange 

Weep  not,  Almeida,  that  I  said  to  thee 

Astonishment      and       boundless 

That  thou  hast  half  my  heart,  for  bitter 

change. 

grief 

Doth  hold  the  other  half  in  sovranty. 

Thou  art  my  heart's  sun  in  love's  crys- 

talline : 

Yet  on  both  sides  at  once  thou  canst 

LOST  HOPE. 

not  shine : 

Thine  is  the  bright  side  of  my  heart, 

VTou  cast  to  ground  the  hope  which 

and  thine 

once  was  mine  : 

My  heart's  day,  but  the  shadow  of  my 

But  did  the  while  your  harsh  decree 

heart. 

deplore. 

Issue  of  its  own  substance,  my  heart's 

Embalming  with  sweet  tears  the  vacant 

night 

shrine, 

Thou  canst  not  lighten  even  with  hy 

My  heart,  where  Hope  had  been  and 

light. 

was  no  more. 

All-powerful  in  beauty  as  thou  art. 

Almeida,  if  my  heart  were  substance 

So  on  an  oaken  sprout 

less, 

A  goodly  acorn  grew  ; 

Then  might  thy  rays  pass  through  to 

But   winds  from  heaven  shook  the 

the  other  side. 

acorn  out, 

So  swiftly,  that  they  nowhere  would 

And  filled  the  cup  with  dew. 

abide, 

SONNET. 


47^ 


But  lose  themselves  in  utter  emptiness. 
Half-light,  half-shadow,  let  my  spirit 

sleep  ; 
They  never  learned  to  love  who  never 

knew  to  weep. 


TO  A  LADY   SLEEPING. 

O   THOU   whose   fringed    lids   I   gaze 

upon. 
Through  whose  dim  brain  the  winged 

dreams  are  borne, 
Unroof  the  shrines  of  clearest  vision, 
In  honor  of  the  silver-flecked  morn  ; 
Long  hath  the  white  wave  of  the  virgin 

light 
Driven  back  the  billow  of  the  dreamful 

dark. 
Thou  all  unwittingly  prolongest  night, 
Though  long  ago  listening  the  poised 

lark, 
With  eyes   dropt   downward   through 

the  blue  serene, 
Over  heaven's  parapet  the  angels  lean. 


SONNET. 

Could  I  outwear  my  present  state  of 
woe 

With  one  brief  winter,  and  indue  i'  the 
spring 

Hues  of  fresh  youth,  and  mightily  out- 
grow 

Than  wan  dark  coil  of  faded  suffer- 
ing— 

Forth  in  the  pride  of  beauty  issuing 

A  sheeny  snake,  the  light  of  vernal 
bowers. 

Moving  his  crest  to  all  sweet  plots  of 
flowers 

And  watered  valleys  where  the  young 
birds  sing  ; 

Could  I  thus  hope  my  lost  delight's 
renewing, 

I  straightly  would  command  the  tears 
to  creep 

From  my  charged  lids ;  but  inwardly  I 
weep ; 


Some   vital   heat  as   yet   my  heart  is 

wooing  : 
That  to  itself  hath  drawn  the  frozen 

rain 
From    my  cold  eyes,  and  melted   it 

again. 


SONNET. 

Though  Night  hath  climbed  her  peak 

of  highest  noon, 
And  bitter  blasts  the  screaming  autumn 

whirl, 
All    night   through    archways   of   the 

bridged  pearl, 
And   portals  of  pure  silver,  walks  the 

moon. 
Walk    on,   my    soul,   nor    crouch    to 

agony, 
Turn  cloud  to  light,  and  bitterness  to 


joy, 

I  dross   to 


And  dross   to   gold  with  glorious   al- 
chemy. 
Basing  thy  throne  above  the  world's 

annoy. 
Reign  thou  above  the  storms  of  sorrow 

and  ruth 
That  roar  beneath ;   unshaken  peace 

hath  won  thee ; 
So  shalt  thou  pierce  the  woven  glooms. 

of  truth ; 
So  shall  the  blessing  of  the  meek  be 

on  thee ; 
So  in  thine  hour  of  dawn,  the  body's 

youth, 
An   honorable   eld  shall    come   upon 

thee. 


SONNET. 

Shall  the  hag  Evil  die  with  child  of 

Good, 
Or  propagate  again  her  loathed  kind, 
Thronging  the  cells    of    the   diseased 

mind, 
Hateful  with  hanging  cheeks,  a  withered 

brood. 
Though  hourly  pastured  on  the  salient 

blood  ? 


472 


LOVE. 


O  that  the  wind  which  bloweth  cold  or 

heat 
Would  shatter  and  o'erbear  the  brazen 

beat 
Of  their  broad  vans,  and  in  the  solitude 
Of  middle  space  confound  them,  and 

blow  back 
Their   wild    cries   down   their   cavern 

throats,  and  slake 
With  points  of  blast-borne  hail  their 

heated  eyne ! 
So  their   wan   limbs   no   more   might 

come  between 
The  moon  and  the  moon's  reflex  in  the 

night, 
Nor  blot  with  floating  shades  the  solar 

light. 


SONNET. 

The  pallid  thunder-stricken  sigh  for 

gain, 
Do'wn  an  ideal  stream  they  ever  float, 
And  sailing  on  Pactolus  in  a  boat, 
Drown  soul  and  sense,  while  wistfully 

they  strain 
Weak  eyes  upon  the  glistening  sands 

that  robe 
The  understream.     The  wise,  could  he 

behold 
Cathedraled  caverns   of    thick-ribbed 

gold 
And  branching  silvers  of  the  central 

globe, 
Would    marvel  from   so    beautiful  a 

sight 
How  scorn    and  ruin,  pain  and  hate 

could  flow : 
But  Hatred  in  a  gold  cave  sits  below; 
Pleached   with   her    hair,   in   mail    of 

argent  light 
Shot  into  gold,  a  snake  her  forehead 

clips, 
And  skins  the  color  from  her  trembling 

lips. 


LOVE. 
I. 

Thou,  from  the  first,  unborn,  undying 

love. 
Albeit  we  gaze  not  on  thy  glories  near. 
Before  the  face  of  God  didst  breathe 

and  move. 
Though  night  and  pain  and  ruin  and 

death  reign  here. 
Thou  foldest,  like  a  golden  atmosphere. 
The  very  throne  of  the  eternal  God : 
Passing  through  thee  the  edicts  of  his 

fear 
Are  mellowed  into  music,  borne  abroad 
By  the  loud  winds,  though  they  uprend 

the  sea. 
Even   from   its   central   deeps :    thine 

empery 
Is  over  all  ;  thou  wilt  not  brook  eclipse; 
Thou  goest  and  returnest  to  His  lips 
Like  lightning  :  thou   dost  ever  brood 

above 
The  silence  of  all  hearts,  unutterable 

Love. 

II. 
To  know  thee  is  all  wisdom,  and  old 

age 
Is  but  to  know  thee  :  dimly  we  behold 

thee 
Athwart  the  veils  of  evils  which  infold 

thee. 
We   beat   upon   our   aching  hearts  in 

rage; 
We  cry  for  thee  ;  we  deem  the  world 

thy  tomb. 
As  dwellers  in  lone  planets  look  upon 
The  mighty  disk  of  their  majestic  sun, 
Hollowed  in  awful  chasms  of  wheeling 

gloom, 
Making  their  day  dim,  so  we  gaze  en 

thee. 
Come,   thou   of  many   crowns,  white- 
robed  love. 
Oh  !  rend   the  veil   in  twain  :  all  men 

adore  thee  ; 
Heaven  crieth  after  thee  ;  earth  waiteth 

for  thee  ; 
Breathe   on    thy  winged  throne,  and  it 

shall  move 
In  music  and  in  light  o'er  land  and  sea. 


ENGLISH  WAR  SONG. 


473 


III. 

And   now — methinks  I  gaze  upon  thee 

now, 
As  on  a  serpent  in  his  agonies 
Awe-stricken  Indians ;  what  time  laid 

low 
And  crushing  the  thick  fragrant  reeds 

he  lies, 
When  the  new  year  warm-breathed  on 

the  Earth, 
Waiting  to  light  him  with   her  purple 

skies, 
Calls  to  him  by  the  fountain  to  uprise- 
Already  with  the  pangs  of  a  new  birth 
Strain  the  hot  spheres  of  his  convulse'd 

eyes, 
And  in  his  writhings  awful  hues  begin 
To  wander  down  his  sable-sheeny  sides,. 
Like   light   on  troubled  waters  :  from 

v/ithin 
Anon  he  rusheth  forth  with  merry  din, 
And  in  him  light  and  joy  and  strength 

abiaes  ; 
And  from  his  brows  a  crown  of  living 

light 
Looks     through    the    thick-stemmed 

woods  by  day  and  night. 


THE  KRAKEN. 

Below  the  thunders  of  the  upper  deep; 
Far,  far  beneath  in  the  abysmal  sea, 
Hir     ancient,    dreamless,    uninvaded 

sleep, 
The    Kraken  sleepeth  :  faintest  sun- 
lights flee 
About  his  shadowy  sides  :   above  him 

swell 
Hus^e  sponges  of  millennial  growth  and 

height ; 
And  far  away  into  the  sickly  light. 
From  many  a  wondrous  grot  and  secret 

cell 
Unnumbered  and  enormous  polypi 
Winnow  with  giant  fins  the  slumbering 

green. 
There  hath  he  lain  for  ages  and  will  lie 
Battening  upon   huge  seaworms  in  his 

sleep, 


Until  the  latter  fire  shall  heat  the  deep ; 
Then  once   by   man  and  angels  to  be 

seen, 
In  roaring  he  shall  rise    and   on   the 

surface  die. 


ENGLISH  WAR  SONG. 

Who  fears  to  die  .?  .  Who  fears  t» 

die  } 
Is  there  any  here  who  fears  to  die  .? 
He  shall  find  what  he  fears  ;  and  none 
shall  grieve 
For  the  man  who  fears  to  die  ; 
But   the  withering  scorn  of  the  many 
shall  cleave 
To  the  man  who  fears  to  die. 

CHORUS. 

•  Shout  for  England  I 

Ho  !  for  England  ! 
George  for  England  ! 
Merry  England  ! 
England  for  aye ! 

The   hollow  at  heart   shall   crouch 

forlorn. 
He  shall  eat  the  bread  of  common 
scorn ; 
It  shall  be  steeped  in  the  salt,  salt  tear, 
Shall  be  steeped  in  his  own  salt  tear: 
Far  better,  far  better  he  never   were 
born 
Than  to  shame  merry  England  here. 

Cho. — Shout  for  England  !  etc. 

There  standeth  our  ancient  enemy  ; 
Hark  !    he    shouteth  —  the   ancient 
enemy  ! 
On  the  ridge  of  the  hill   his  banners 
rise  ; 
They  stream  like  fire  in  the  skies  ; 
Hold  up  the  Lion  of  England  on  high 
Till  it  dazzle  and  blind  his  eyes. 

Cho. — Shout  for  England  !  etc. 

Come  along!  we  alone  of  the  earth 

are  free  ; 
The  child  in   our  cradles  is  bolder 

than  he  ; 


474 


IVE  ARE  FREE. 


For  where  is  the  heart  and  strength  of 

slaves  ? 

Oh  !  where  is  the  strength  of  slaves  ? 

He  is  weak!  we  are  strong:  he  a  slave, 

we  are  free  ; 

Come  along  !  we  will  dig  their  graves. 

Cho. — Shout  for  England  I  etc. 

There  standeth  our  ancient  enemy ; 

Will  he  dare  to  battle  with  the  free  ? 
Spur  along !  spur  amain !  charge  to  the 
fight : 

Charge  !  charge  to  the  fight  I 
Hold  up  the  Lion  of  England  on  high  ! 

Shout  for  God  and  our  right  ! 

Cho. — Shout  for  England  !  etc. 


NATIONAL  SONG. 

There  is  no  land  like  England 
Where'er  the  light  of  day  be  ; 

There    are     no    hearts     like    English 
hearts, 
Such  hearts  of  oak  as  they  be. 

There  is  no  land  like  England 
Where'er  the  light  of  day  be  ; 

There  are  no  men  like  Englishmen, 
So  tall  and  bold  as  they  be. 

CHORUS. 

For  the  French  the  Pope  may  shrive  *em 
For  the  devil  a  whit  we  heed  'em  : 
As  for  the  French,  God  speed  'em 

Unto  their  heart's  desire, 
And  the  merry  devil  drive  'em 

Through  the  water  and  the  fire. 

FULL  CHORUS. 

Our  glory  is  our  freedom, 
We  lord  it  o'er  the  sea  ; 
We  are  the  sons  of  freedom, 
We  are  free. 

There  is  no  land  like  England, 
Where'er  the  light  of  day  be  ; 

There  are  no  wives  like  P2nglish  wives, 
So  fair  and  chaste  as  they  be. 


There  is  no  land  like  England, 
Where'er  the  light  of  day  be  ; 

There  are  no  maids  like  English  maids 
So  beautiful  as  they  be. 

Cho. — For  the  French,  etc. 


DUALISMS. 

Two  bees  within  a  crystal  flowerbell 
rocked, 
Hum  a  lovelay  to  the  west-wind  at 
noontide 
Both  alike,  they  buzz  together, 
Both  alike,  they  hum  together, 
Through  and  through  the  flowered 
heather. 
Where  in   a   creeping  cove  the  wave 
unshocked 
Lays  itself  calm  and  wide 
Over  a  stream  two  birds  of  glanc- 
ing feather 
Do  woo    each    other,    carolling 

together 
Both  alike,  they  glide  together) 

Side  by  side ; 
Both  alike,  they  sing  together, 
Arching    blue-glossed    necks  beneatL 
the  purple  weather 

Two  children  lovelier  than  Love  adown 

the  lea  are  singing 
As    they    gambol,    lily-garlands    ever 

stringing : 
Both  inblosm  white  silk  are  frocked  : 
Like,  unlike,  they  roam  together 
Under  a  summer  vault  of  golden 

weather  : 
Like,  unlike,  they  sing  together 

Side  by  side. 
Mid  May's  darling  golden  locke'd. 
Summer's  tanling  diamond  eyed. 


WE  ARE  FREE. 

The  winds,  as  at  their  hour  of  birth, 
Leaning  upon  the  winged  sea. 

Breathed  low  around  the  rolling  earth 
With  mellow  preludes,"  We  are  free."' 


mE  SEA  FAIRIES. 


475 


The  streams  through  many  alilied  row 
Down-carolling  to  the  crispe'd  sea, 

Low-tinkled  with  a  bell-like  flow 
Atween  the  blossoms,  "  We  are  free." 


THE  SEA  FAIRIES.* 

Slow  sailed  the  weary  mariners,  and 
saw 

Between  the  green  brink  and  the  run- 
ning foam 

White  limbs  unrobed  in  a  crystal  air, 

Sweet  faces,  rounded  arms,  and  bosoms 
prest 

To  little  harps  of  gold  :  and  while  they 
mused, 

Whispering  to  each  other  half  in  fear, 

Shrill  music  reached  them  on  the  middle 
sea. 

SONG. 

Whither  away,  whither  away,  whither 

away  }     Fly  no  more  : 
Whither   away  wi'  the  singing  sail  ? 
whither  away  wi'  the  oar  .? 
Whither  away  from  the  high  green  field 
and  the  happy  blossoming  shore  ? 
Weary  mariners,  hither  away, 

One  and  all,  one  and  all. 
Weary  mariners,  come  and  play  ; 
We  will  sing  to  you  all  the  day  ; 
Furl  the  sail  and  the  foam  will  fall 
From  the  prow  !     One  and  all 
Furl  the  sail  1     Drop  the  oar  I 
Leap  ashore, 
Know  danger  and  trouble  and  toil  no 

more. 
Whither  away  wi'  the  sail  and  the  oar.'' 
Drop  the  oar. 
Leap  ashore. 
Fly  no  more  ! 
Whither  away  wi'    the   sail  ?  whither 
away  wi'  the  oar  ? 
Day  and  night  to  the  billow  the  foun- 
tain calls  : 
Down  showef  the  gambolling  water- 
falls 
From  wandering  over  the  lea; 

*  Original  form. 


They    freshen    the    silvery-crimson 

shells, 
And  thick  with  white  bells  the  clover- 
hill  swells 
High  over  the  full-toned  sea. 
Merrily  carol  the  revelling  gales 

Over  the  islands  free  ; 
From  the  green  seabanks  the  rose 
down  trails 
To  the  happy  brimmed  sea. 
Come  hither,  come  hither  and  be  our 
lords. 
For  merry  brides  are  we  ; 
We  will  kiss  sweet  kisses,  and  speak 
sweet  words. 
O   listen,    listen,  your   eyes  shall 

glisten 
With  pleasure  and  love  and  revelry; 
O   listen,    listen,   your   eyes   shall 
glisten. 
When  the  sharp   clear   twang  of  the 
golden  chords 
Runs  up  the  ridge'd  sea. 
Ye  will  not  find  so  happy  a  shore. 
Weary  mariners !  all  the  world  o'er  ; 

O,  fly  no  more  1 
Hearken  ye,  hearken  ye,  sorrow  shalJ 

darken  ye. 
Danger  and  trouble  and  toil  no  more ; 
Whither  away  .<* 
Drop  the  oar; 
Hither  away 
Leap  ashore ; 
O  fly  no  more — no  more  : 
Whither  away,  whither  away,  whither 
away  with  the  sail  and  the  oar  ? 


Oi  peofTcs. 


All  thoughts,  all  creeds,  all  dreariiS 
are  true. 

All  visions  wild  and  strange : 
Man  is  the  measure  of  all  truth 

Unto  himself.     All  truth  is  change. 
All  men  do  walk  in  sleep,  and  all 

Have  faith  in  that  they  dream  : 
For  all  things  are  as  they  seem  to  alL 

And  all  things  flow  like  a  stream. 


There  is  no  rest,  no  calm,  no  pause. 
Nor  good  nor  ill,  nor  light  nor  shade. 

Nor  essence  nor  eternal  laws: 
For  nothing  is,  but  all  is  made. 


But  if  I  dream  that  all  these  are, 
They  are  to  me  for  that  I  dream ; 

For  all  things  are  as  they  seem  to  all 
And  all  things  flow  like  a  stream. 

Argal — this  very  opinion  is  only  true 
relatively  to  the  flowing  philosophers. 


POEMS    PUBLISHED    IN   THE   EDITION    OF  1833, 
AND  OMITTED  IN  LATER  EDITIONS. 


SONNET. 

Mine  be  the  strength  of  spirit  fierce 
and  free. 

Like  some  broad  river  rushing  down 
alone, 

With  the  selfsame  impulse  wherewitii 
he  was  thrown 

From  his  loud  fount  upon  the  echoing 
lea: — 

Which  with  increasing  might  doth  for- 
ward flee 

By  town,  and  tower,  and  hill,  and  cape, 
and  isle, 

And  in  the  middle  of  the  green  salt 
sea 

Keeps  his  blue  waters  fresh  for  many  a 
mile. 

Mine  be  the  Power  which  ever  to  its 
sway 

Will  win  the  wise  at  once,  and  by  de- 
grees 

May  into  uncongenial  spirits  flow; 

Even  as  the  great  gulf  stream  of  Flor- 
ida 

Floats  far  away  into  the  Northern 
seas 

The  lavish  growths  of  southern  Mex- 
ico. 


TO 


All  good  things  have  not  kept  aloof, 

Nor  wandered  into  other  ways  ; 
I  have  not  lacked  thy  mild  reproof, 


Nor  golden  largess  of  thy  praise, 
But  life  is  full  of  weary  days. 

II 

Shake   hands,   my  friend,   across   the 

brink 

Of  that  deep  grave  to  which  I  go. 

Shake   hands   once    more  :    I   cannot 

sink 

So  far — far  down,  but  I  shall  know 

Thy  voice,  and  answer  from  below. 


When,  in  the  darkness  over  me, 
The  four-handed  mole  shall  scrape. 

Plant  thou  no  dusky  cypress-tree, 
Nor  wreathe  thy  cap  with   doleful 

crape. 
But  pledge  me  in  the  flowing  grape. 


And  when  the  sappy  field  and  wood 
Grow  green    beneath    the   showery 
gray, 
And  rugged  barks  begin  to  bud, 

And  through  damp  holts,  new  flushed 

with  May, 
Ring  sudden  laughters  of  the  Jay ; 


Then  let  wise  Nature  work  her  will, 
And  on  my  clay  the  darnels  grow. 

Come  only  when  the  days  are  still. 
And  at  my  headstone  whisper  low. 
And  tell  me  if  the  woodbines  blow, 


SONNETS. 


477 


VI. 


If  thou  art  blest,  my  mother's  smile 
Undimmed,  if  bees  are  on  the  wing  : 

Then  cease,  ray  friend,  a  little  while, 
That  I  may  hear  the  throstle  sing 
His  bridal  song,  the  boast  of  spring. 


VII. 

Sweet  as  the  noise  in  parched  plains 
Of    bubbling    wells    that    fret    the 
stones 
(If  any  sense  in  me  remains), 
Thy  words  will   be;    thy    cheerful 

tones 
As  welcome  to  my  crumbling  bones. 


BONAPARTE. 

He  thought    to    quell    the    stubborn 

hearts  of  oak. 
Madman  I — to  chain  with  chains,  and 

bind  with  bands 
That  island  queen  that  sways  the  floods 

and  lands 
From  Ind  to  Ind,  but  in  fair  daylight 

woke, 
When   from  her  wooden  walls,  lit  by 

sure  hands. 
With  thunders,  and  with  lightnings, 

and  with  smoke. 
Peal    after    peal,    the    British    battle 

broke, 
Lulling  the  brine  against  the  Coptic 

sands. 
We  taught  him  lowlier  moods,  when 

Elsinore 
Heard  the  war  moan  along  the  distant 

sea. 
Rocking    with    shattered  spars,   with 

sudden  fires 
Flamed  over:   at  Trafalgar  yet  once 

more 
We  taught  him :  late  he  learned  hu- 
mility 
Perforce,    like    those    whom    Gideon 

schooled  with  briers. 


SONNETS. 


0  BEAUTY,  passing  beauty!   sweetest 

Sweet  ! 
How  canst  thou   let  me  waste  my 
.     youth  in  sighs  ? 

1  only  ask  to  sit  beside  thy  feet, 
Thou  knowest  I  dare  not  look  into 

thine  eyes. 
Might  I  but  kiss  thy  hand !  I  dare  not 
fold 
My  arms  about  thee — scarcely  dare 
to  speak. 
And  nothing  seems  to  me  so  wild  and 
bold, 
As  with  one  kiss  to  touch  thy  blesse'd 
cheek. 
Methinks  if  I  should  kiss  thee,  no  con- 
trol    . 
Within  the  thrilling  brain  could  keep 

afloat 
The  subtle  .spirit.      Even  while   I 
spoke, 
The   bare   word   kiss  hath  made   my 
inner  soul 
To  tremble  like  a  lutestring,  ere  the 

note 
Hath  melted  in  the  silence  that  it 
broke. 


But  were  I  loved,  as  I  desire  to  be, 
What  is  there  in  the  great  sphere  of  the 

earth. 
And  range  of  evil  between  death  and 

birth  ; 
That  I  should  fear, — if  I  were  loved 

by  thee  } 
All   the   inner,  all  the  outer  world  of 

pain 
Clear  love  would  pierce  and  cleave,  Jt 

thou  wert  mine. 
As  I  have  heard  that,  somewhere  in 

the  main. 
Fresh-water  springs  come  up  through 

bitter  brine. 
'Twere  joy,  not  fear,  clasped  hand-in- 

haud  with  thee, 
To  wait  for  death — mute — careless  of 

all  ills. 


478 


THE  HESPERIDES, 


Apart  upon  a  mountain,  through  the 

surge 
Of  some  new  deluge  from  a  thousand 

hills 
Flung  leagues  of  roaring  foam  into  the 

gorge 
Below  us,  as  far  on  as  eye  could  see. 


THE  HESPERIDES. 

"  Hesperus  and  his  daughters  three, 
That  sing  about  the  golden  tree." 

Comus, 

The  North-wind  fall'n,  in  the  new- 
starred  night 

Zidonian  Hanno,  voyaging  beyond 

The  hoary  promontory  of  Soloe 

Past  Thymiaterion,  in  calmed  bays, 

Between  the  southern  and  the  western 
Horn, 

Heard  neither  warbling  of  the  nightin- 
gale. 

Nor  melody  of  the  Libyan  lotus  flute 

Blown  seaward  from  the  shore  ;  but 
from  a  slope 

That  ran  bloom-bright  into  the  Atlantic 
blue, 

Beneath  a  highland  leaning  down  a 
weight 

Of  cliffs,  and  zoned  below  with  cedar 
shade, 

Came  voices,  like  the  voices  in  a 
dream, 

Continuous,  till  he  reached  the  outer 
sea. 

SONG. 


The  golden  apple,  the  golden  apple, 
the  hallowed  fruit, 

Guard  it  well,  guard  it  warily, 

Singing  airily. 

Standing  about  the  charmed  root. 

Round  about  all  is  mute. 

As  the  snow-field  on  the  mountain- 
peaks. 

As  the  sand-field  at  the  mountain-foot. 

Crocodiles  in  briny  creeks 


Sleep  and  stir  not :  all  is  mute. 

If  ye  sing  not,  if  ye  make  false  meaa 

ure, 
We  shall  lose  eternal  pleasure, 
Worth  eternal  want  of  rest. 
I.augh  not  loudly:  watch  the  treasure 
Of  the  wisdom  of  the  West. 
In   a   corner  wisdom   whispers.     Five 

and  three 
(Let  it  not  be  preached  abroad)  make 

an  awful  mystery. 
For  the  blossom  unto  threefold  music 

bloweth ; 
Evermore  it  is  born  anew  : 
And  the  sap  to  threefold  music  flow- 

eth. 
From  the  root 
Drawn  in  the  dark. 
Up  to  the  fruit. 

Creeping  under  the  fragrant  bark, 
Liquid    gold,    honeysweet,   thro'   and 

thro'. 
Keen-eyed  Sisters,  singing  airily, 
Looking  warily 
Every  way, 

Guard  the  apple  night  and  day, 
Lest  one  from  the  East  come  and  take 

it  away. 

II- 
Father  Hesper,  Father  Hesper,  watch, 

watch,  ever  and  aye. 
Looking  under  silver  hair  with  a  silver 

eye. 
Father,  twinkle  not  thy  steadfast  sight : 
Kingdoms  lapse,  and  climates  change, 

and  rac^s  die ; 
Honor  comes  with  mystery ; 
Hoarded  wisdom  brings  delight. 
Number,  tell  them  over  and  number 
How  many  the  mystic  fruit-tree  holds 
Lest  the  red-combed  dragon  slumber 
Rolled  together  in  purple  folds. 
Look  to  him,  father,  lest  he   wink,  and 

the  golden  apple  be  stol'n  away. 
For   his   ancient   heart  is  drunk  with 

overwatchings  night  and  day. 
Round  about  the   hallowed  fruit-tree 

curled — 
Sing  away,  sing  aloud  evermore  in  the 

wind,  without  stop, 


ROSALIND. 


479 


Lest  his  scaled  eyelid  drop 

For  he  is  older  than  the  world. 

If  he  waken,  we  waken, 

Rapidly  levelling  eager  eyes. 

If  he  sleep,  we  sleep, 

Dropping  the  eyelid  over  the  eyes. 

If  the  golden  apple  be  taken, 

The  world  will  be  overwise. 

Five  links,  a  golden  chain,  are  we, 

Hesper,  the  dragon,  and  sisters  three, 

Bound  about  the  golden  tree. 


III. 


Father  Hesper,  Father  Hesper,  watch, 

watch,  night  and  day, 
Lest  the  old  wound  of  the  world  be 

healed, 
The  glory  unsealed, 
The  golen  apple  stolen  away. 
And  the  ancient  secret  revealed 
Look  from  west  to  east  along : 
Father,  old  Himala  weakens,  Caucasus 

is  bold  and  strong 
Wandering    waters    unto    wandering 

waters  call ; 
Let  them  clash    together,  foam  and 

fall. 
Out  of  watchings,  out  of  wiles. 
Comes  the  bliss  of  secret  smiles. 
All  things  are  not  told  to  all- 
Half-round    the     mantling    night    is 

drawn. 
Purple  fringed  with  even  and  dawn, 
Hesper     hateth     Phosphor,     evening 

hateth  morn. 


IV. 


Every  flower  and  every  fruit  the  redo- 
lent breath 
Of  this  warm  sea-wind  ripeneth. 
Arching  the  billow  m  his  sleep : 
But  the  land-wind  wandereth, 
Broken  by  the  highland-steep, 
Two  streams  upon  the  violet  deep; 
For   the  western  sun  and  the  western 

star, 
And  the  low  west-wind,  breathing  afar, 
The  end  of  day  and  beginning  of  night 
Make  the  apple  holy  and  bright , 


Holy  and  bright,  round  and  full,  bright 
and  blest. 

Mellowed  in  a  land  of  rest; 

Watch  it  warily  day  and  night ; 

All  good  things  are  in  the  west. 

Till  mid  noon  the  cool  east  light 

Is  shut  out  by  the  tall  hillbrow  ; 

But  when  the  full-faced  sunset  yellowly 

Stays  on  the  flowering  arch  of  the 
bough. 

The  luscious  fruitage  clustereth  mel- 
lowly, 

Golden-kernelled,  golden-cored, 

Sunset-ripened  above  on  the  tree. 

The  world  is  wasted  with  fire  and 
sword. 

But  the  apple  of  gold  hangs  over  the 
sea. 

Five  links,  a  golden  chain  are  we, 

Hesper,  the  dragon,  and  sisters  three. 

Daughters  three, 

Bound  about 

The  gnarled  bole  of  the  charme'd  tree. 

The  golden  apple,  the  golden  apple, 
the  hallowed  fruit. 

Guard  it  well,  guard  it  warily, 

Watch  it  warily, 

Singing  arily. 

Standing  about  the  charme'd  root. 


ROSALIND. 
I. 

My  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 
My  frolic  falcon  with  bright  eyes, 
Whose  free  delight,  from  any  height  o£ 

rapid  flight. 
Stoops  at  all  games  that  wing  the  skies, 
My  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 
My     bright-eyed,     wild-eyed     falcon, 

whither, 
Careless  both  of  wind  and  weather, 
Whither  fly  ye,  what  game  spy  ye, 
Up  or  down  the  streaming  wind.'' 


The     quick 

II. 

lark's 

closest-carolled 

strains, 

The  shadow  i 

tishing 

up  the  sea, 

The  lightning 

flash  atween  the  rains, 

48o 


KATE. 


The  sunlight  driving  down  the  lea, 
The  leaping  stream,  the  very  wind, 
That  will  not  stay,  upon  his  way, 
To  stoop  the  cowslip  to  the  plains, 
Is  not  so  clear  and  bold  and  free 
As  you,  my  falcon  Rosalind. 
You  care  not  for  another's  pains, 
Because  you  are  the  soul  of  joy. 
Bright  metal  all  without  alloy. 
Life   shoots    and  glances  thro'    your 

veins, 
And  flashes  off  a  thousand  ways 
Through  lips  and  eyes  in  subtle  rays. 
Your  hawkeyes  are  keen  and  bright, 
Keen  with  triumph,  watching  still 
To  pierce   me   through  with   pointed 

light; 
But  oftentimes  they  flash  and  glitter 
Like  sunshine  on  a  dancing  rill, 
And  your  words  are  seeming-bitter, 
Sharp  and  few,  but  seeming-bitter 
From  excess  of  swift  delight. 


Come  down,  come  home,  my  Rosalind, 
My  gay  young  hawk,  my  Rosalind  : 
Too  long  you  keep  the  upper  skies  ; 
Too  long  you  roam  and  wheel  at  will : 
But  we  must  hood  your  random  eyes ; 
That  care  not  whom  they  kill, 
And  your  cheek,  whose  brilliant  hue 
Is  so  sparkling-fresh  to  view. 
Some  red  heath-flower  in  the  dew, 
Touched  with  sunrise.     We  must  bind 
And  keep  you  fast,  my  Rosalind, 
Fast,  fast,  my  wild-eyed  Rosalind, 
And   clip   your   wings,  and   make  you 

love  : 
"When  we  have  lured  you  from  above. 
And  that  delight  of  frolic  flight,  by  day 

or  night. 
From  north  to  south  ; 
"Will  bind  you  fast  in  silken  cords. 
And  kiss  away  the  bitter  words 
From  off  your  rosy  mouth.* 


*  Author's  Note.  —  Perhaps    the  follow- 
ing lines  may  be  allowed  to  stand  as  a  sepa- 
rate poem  ;  originally  they  made  part  of  the 
text,  wliere  they  were  manifestly  superfluous. 
My  Rosalind,  my  Rosahnd, 
Bold,  subtle,  careless  Rosalind, 


SONG. 

"Who  can  say 

"Why  To-day 

To-morrow  will  be  yesterday? 

Who  can  tell 

Why  to  smell 

The  violet  recalls  the  dewy  prime 

Of  youth  and  buried  time  ? 

The  cause  is  nowhere  found  in  rhyme 


KATE. 


I  KNOW  her  by  her  angry  air, 

Her  bright  black  eyes,  her  bright  black 
hair. 
Her  rapid  laughters  wild  and  shrill, 

As  laughters  of  the  woodpecker 
From  the  bosom  of  a  hill, 
'Tis   Kate  —  she   sayeth  what  she 
will : 

For  Kate  hath  an  unbridled  tongue, 
Clear  as  the  twanging  of  a  harp. 
Her  heart  is  like  a  throbbing  star- 
Is  one  of  those  who  know  no  strife 
Of  inward  woe  or  outward  fear  ; 
To  whom  the  slope  and  stream  of  Life, 
The  life  before,  the  life  behind, 
In  the  ear,  from  far  and  near, 
Chimeth  musically  clear. 
My  falcon-hearted  Rosalind, 
Full-sailed  before  a  vigorous  wind. 
Is  one  of  those  who  cannot  weep 
For  others'  woes,  but  overleap 
All  the  petty  shocks  and  fears 
That  trouble  life  in  early  years, 
"With  a  flash  of  frolic  scorn 
And  keen  delight,  that  never  falls 
Away  from  freshness,  seif-upbome 
With  such  gladness  as,  whenever 
The  fresh-flushing  springtime  calls 
To  the  flooding  waters  cool, 
Young  fishes,  on  an  April  morn, 
Up  and  down  a  rapid  river. 
Leap  the  little  waterfalls 
That  sing  into  the  pebbled  pool, 
My  happy  falcon,  Rosalind, 
Hath  daring  fancies  of  her  own, 
Fresh  as  the  dawn  before  the  day- 
Fresh  as  the  early  sea-smell  blown 
Througii  vineyards  from  an  inland  bay. 
My  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 
Because  no  shadow  on  you  falls. 
Think  you  liearts  are  tennis  balls 
To  play  with,  wanton  Rosalind? 


SONNET, 


481 


Kate  hath  a  spirit  ever  strung 

"ike   a   new   bow,   and   bright  and 
sharp 
As  edges  of  the  cimeter. 
Whence    shall    she    take   a   fitting 
mate  ? 
For   Kate  no   common  love  will 
feel; 
My  woman-soldier,  gallant  Kate, 
As   pure   and   true   as   blades   of 
steel. 


Kate  saith    "the    world  is  void    of 
might." 
Kate  saith  "  the  men  are  gilded  flies." 
Kate    snaps    her    fingers   at  my 
vows  ; 
Kate  will  not  hear  of  lovers'  sighs. 
I  would  I  were  an  armed  knight, 
Far  famed  for  well-won  enterprise, 

And  wearing  on  my  swarthy  brows 
The  garland  of  new-wreathed  em- 
prise : 
For  in  a  moment  I  would  pierce 
The  blackest  files  of  clanging  fight, 
And  strongly  strike  to  left  and  right, 
In  dreaming  of  my  lady's  eyes. 
Oh  !  Kate  loves  well  the  bold  and 
fierce ; 
But  none  are  bold  enough  for  Kate, 
She  cannot  find  a  fitting  mate. 


SONNET 

WRITTEN  ON  HEARING  OF  THE  OUT- 
BREAK OF  THE  POLISH  INSURREC- 
TION. 

Blow  ye  the  trumpet,  gather  from  afar 
The  hosts  to  battle  :  be  not  bought  and 

sold.  ^ 

Arise,  braves  Poles,  the  boldest  of  the 

bold; 
Break  through  your  iron  shackles — 

fling  them  far. 
O  for  those  days  of  Piast,  ere  the  Czar 
Grew  to  his  strength  among  his  deserts 

cold  ; 
When  even  to  Moscow's  cupolas  were 

rolled 


The  growing  murmurs  of  the  Polish 
war ! 

Now  must  your  noble  anger  blaze  out 
more 

Than  when  from  Sobieski,  clan  by  clan, 

The  Moslem  myriads  fell,  and  fled  be- 
fore— 

Than  when  Zamoysky  smote  the  Tar- 
tar Khan  ; 

Than  earlier,  when  on  the  Baltic  shore 

Boleslas  drove  the  Pomeranian. 


SONNET 

ON  THE  RESULT  OF  THE  LATE  RUSSIAN 
INVASION  OF  POLAND. 

How  long,  O  God,  shall  men  be  ridden 
down, 

And  trampled  under  by  the  last  and 
least 

Of  men  ?  The  heart  of  Poland  hath  not 
ceased 

To  quiver,  though  her  sacred  blood 
doth  drown 

The  fields  ;  and  out  of  every  moulder- 
ing town 

Cries  to  Thee,  lest  brute  Power  be  in- 
creased, 

Till  that  o'ergrown  Barbarian  in  the 
East 

Transgress  his  ample  bound  to  some 
new  crown  : — 

Cries  to  Thee,  "  Lord,  how  long  shall 
these  things  be  } 

How  long  shall  the  icy-hearted  Musco- 
vite 

Oppress  the  region  ?'*  Us,  O  Just  and 
Good, 

Forgive,  who  smiled  when  she  was 
torn  in  three ; 

Us,  who  stand  wfTw,  when  we  should  aid 
the  right — 

A  matter  to  be  wept  with  tears  of  blood  I 


SONNET. 

As  when  with  downcast  eyes  we  muse 

and  brood. 
And  ebb  into  a  former  life,  or  seem 


432 


ANACREONTICS. 


To  lapse  far  back  in  a  confused  dream 

To  states  of  mystical  similitude  ; 

If  one  but  speaks  or  hems  or  stirs  his 

chair, 
Ever    the  wonder  waxeth   more  and 

more, 
So  that  we  say,  "  All  this  hath  been  be- 
fore. 
All  this  hath  been,  I  know  not  when  or 

where." 
So,  friend,  when  first  I  looked  upon 

your  face, 
Our  thought  gave  answer,  each  to  each, 

so  true. 
Opposed  mirrors  each  reflecting  each — 
Altho'  I  knew  not  in  what  time  or  place, 
Methought  that  I  had  often  met  with 

you, 
And  each  had  lived  in  the  other's  mind 

and  speech. 


O  DARLING  ROOM. 
I. 

O  DARLING  room,  my  heart's  delight, 
Dear  room,  the  apple  of  my  sight, 
With  thy  two  couches  soft  and  white, 
There  is  no  room  so  exquisite. 
No  little  room  so  warm  and  brigl 
Wherein  to  read,  wherein  to  write. 


II. 


For  I  the  Nonnenwerth  have  seen, 
And  Oberwinter's  vineyards  green. 
Musical  Lurlei ;  and  between 
The  hills  to  Bingen  have  I  been, 
Bingen  in  Darmstadt,  where  the  Rhene 
Curves  toward  Mentz,  a  woody  scene. 


Yet  never  did  there  meet  my  sight. 

In  any  town  to  left  or  right, 

A  little  room  so  exquisite, 

With  two  such  couches  soft  and  white; 

Not  any  room  so  warm  and  bright, 

Wherein  to  read,  wherein  to  write. 


TO    CHRISTOPHER    NORTH. 

You  did  late  review  my  lays, 

Crusty  Christopher; 
You  did  mingle  blame  and  praise, 

Rusty  Christopher. 
When  I  learnt  from  whom  it  came> 
I  forgave  you  all  the  blame, 

Musty  Christopher; 
I  could  not  forgive  the  prais© 

Fusty  Christopher. 


FUGITIVE    POEMS 


NO  MORE.* 

0  SAD  No  More!  O  sweet  No  More! 
O  strange  No  More  ! 

By  a  mossed  brookbank  on  a  stone 

1  smelt  a  wildweed  flower  alone  ; 
There  was  a  ringing  in  my  ears, 
And  both  my  eyes  gushed  out  with 

tears. 

Surely  all  pleasant  things  had  gone  be- 
fore. 

Low-buried  fathom  deep  beneath  with 
thee, 

No  More  ! 

*  From  the  Gem,  a  literary  annual,  for  1831. 


ANACREONTICS.* 

With  roses  musky-breathed. 
And  drooping  daffodilly, 
And  silver-leaved  lily, 
And  ivy  darkly-wreathed, 
I  wove  a  crown  before  her, 
For  her  I  love  so  dearly, 
A  garland  for  Lenora. 
Wi^th  a  silken  cord  I  bound  it. 
Lenora,  laughing  clearly 
A  light  and  thrilling  laughter, 
About  her  forehead  wound 
And  loved  me  ever  after. 


SONNET. 


483 


A  FRAGMENT  * 

Where  is  the  Giant  of  the  Sun,  which 

stood 
In  the  midnoon  the  glory  of  old  Rhodes, 
A  perfect  Idol  with  profulgent  brows 
Far-sheening  down  the  purple  seas   to 

those 
Who  sailed  from  Mizraim  underneath 

the  star 
Named  of  the   Dragon — and  between 

whose  limbs 
Of  brassy  vastness  broad-blown  Ar- 
gosies 
Drave   into  haven  !*     Yet  endure  un- 
scathed 
Of  changeful  cycles  the  great  Pyramids 
Broad-based  amid  the  fleeting  sands, 

and  sloped 
Into  the  slumberous  summer-noon ;  but 

where, 
Mysterious  Egypt,  are  thine  obelisks 
Graven  with  gorgeous  emblems  undis- 

cerned  ? 
Thv  placid  Sphinxes  brooding  o'er  the 

'Nile? 
Thy  shadowing  Idols  in  the  solitudes. 
Awful  Memnonian  countenances  calm 
Looking  athwart  the  burning  flats,  far 

off 
Seen  by  the  high-necked  camel  on  the 

verge 
Journeying  southward  ?  Where  are  thy 

monuments 
Piled  by  the  strong  and  sunborn  Ana- 

kim 
Over  their  crowned  brethren  On  and 

Oph? 
Thy  Memnon  when  his  peaceful  lips 

are  kist 
With    earliest    rays,    that    from     his 

mother's  eyes 
Flow  over  the  Arabian  bay,  no  more 
Breathes  low  into  the  charmed  ears  of 

morn 
Clear  melody  flattering  the  crisped  Nile 
By  columned  Thebes.     Old  Memphis 

hath  gone  down  : 
The  Pharoahs  are  no  more:  somewhere 

in  death 

*  From  the  Gem,  a  literary  annual,  for  1861. 


They  sleep  with  staring  eyes  and  gilded 

lips, 
A  rapped  round  with  spiced  cerements 

in  old  grots 
Rock-hewn  and  sealed  forever. 


SONNET.t 

Me  my   own   fate  to  lasting    sorrew 
doometh  : 
Thy  woes  are  birds  of  passage,  tran- 
sitory : 
Thy  spirit,  circled  with  a  living  glory, 
In  summer  still  a  summer  joy  resumeth 
Alone  my  hopeless  melancholy  gloom- 
eth, 
Like  a  lone  cypress,  through  the  twi- 
light hoary, 
From  an  old  garden  where   no  flower 
bloometh. 
One  cypress  on  an  island  promontory. 
But  yet  my  lonely  spirit  follows  thine. 
As  round  the  rolling  earth  night  rol- 
lows  day  : 
But  yet  thy  lights  on  my  horizon  shine 
Into  my  night,  when   thou  art  far 
away. 
I  am  so  dark,  alas  !  and  thou  so  bright 
When  we  two  meet  there's  never  per- 
fect light. 


SONNET.t 

Check  every  outflash,  every  ruder  sally 
Of  thought  and  speech ;  speak  low 
and  give  up  wholly 
Thy  spirit  to  mild-minded  melancholy; 
This   is   the   place.     Through  yonder 
poplar  valley 
Below  the  blue-green  river  windeth 
slowly ; 
But  in  the  middle  of  the  sombre  valley 
The  crisped  waters  whisper  musically, 
And  all  the  haunted  place  is  dark  and 
holy. 
The   nightingale,   with   long   and  low 
preamble, 

t  Friendship's  Offering,  1833. 


4B4 


STANZAS. 


Warbled  from  yonder  knoll  of  solemn 
larches, 

And  in  and  out  the  woodbine's  flow- 
ery arches 
The  summer  midges  wove  their  wanton 
gambol, 

And  all  the  white-stemmed  pinewood 
slept  above — 

When  in  this  valley  first  I  told  my 
love. 


THE  SKIPPING-ROPE  * 

Sure  never  yet  was  Antelope 

Could  skip  so  lightly  by. 
Stand  off,  or  else  my  skipping-rope 

Will  hit  you  in  the  eye. 
How  lightlywhirls  the  skipping-rope! 

How  fairy-like  you  fly  ! 
Go,    get   you   gone,   you   muse  and 
mope — 

I  hate  that  silly  sigh. 
Nay,  dearest,  teach  me  how  to  hope, 

Or  tell  me  how  to  die. 
There,   take   it,   take   my  skipping- 
rope. 

And  hang  yourself  thereby. 


THE  NEW  TIMON  AND  THE 
POETS.t 

We  know  him,  out  of  Shakespeare's 
art, 
And  those  fine    curses    which    he 
spoke  ; 
The  old  Tiraon,  with  his  noble  heart. 
That,  strongly  loathing,  greatly  broke. 

So  died  the  Old  ;  here  comes  the  New. 

Regard  him ;  a  familiar  face : 
I  thought  we  knew  him:  What,  it's  you 

The   padded  man — that    wears  the 
stays — 

Who  killed  the  girls  and  thrilled  the 
boys 
With  dandy  pathos  when  you  wrote  ! 

*  Omitted  from  the  edition  of  1842. 
I  Published  in  Punch,  February,  1846,  sign- 
^  "  Alcibiades." 


A  Lion,  you,  that  made  a  noise. 
And  shook  a  mane  en  papillotes. 

And  once  you  tried  the  Muses  too ; 

You  failed,  Sir  ;  therefore  now  ye« 
turn. 
To  fall  on  those  who  are  to  you 

As  Captain  is  to  Subaltern. 

But  men  of  long-enduring  hopes. 
And   careless  what  this  hour  may 
bring. 
Can  pardon  little  would-be  Popes 
And  Brummels,  when  they  try  <;o 
sting. 

An  Artist,  Sir,  should  rest  in  Art, 
And  waive  a  little  of  his  claim; 

To  have  the  deep  poetic  heart 
Is  more  than  all  poetic  fame. 

But  you.  Sir,  you  are  hard  to  please ; 

You  never  look  but  half  content; 
Nor  like  a  gentleman  at  ease. 

With  moral  breadth  of  temperament. 

And  what  with  spites  and  what  with 
fears. 

You  cannot  let  a  body  be  : 
It's  always  ringing  in  your  ears, 

"  They  call  this  man  as  good  as  me^ 

What  profits  now  to  understand 
The  merits  of  a  spotless  shirt— 

A  dapper  boot — a  little  hand — 
If  half  the  little  soul  is  dirt  ? 

Yoic  talk  of  tinsel !  why  we  see 
The  old  mark  of  rouge  upon  your 
cheeks. 

You  prate  of  Nature !  you  are  he 
That  spilt  his  life  about  the  cliques. 

A  TiMON  you  !  Nay,  nay,  for  shame  : 
It  looks  too  arrogant  a  jest — 

The  fierce  old  man — to  take  his  mame, 
You  bandbox.    Off,  and  let  him  rest. 


STANZAS.t 
What  time  I  wasted  youthful  hours, 
One  of  the  shining  winged  powers, 
Show'd  me  vast   cliffs  with  crown  of 
towers. 

$  The  Keepsake,  1851. 


BRITONS  GUARD  YOUR  OWiV. 


485 


As  towards  the  gracious  light  I  bow'd, 
They  seem'd  high  palaces  and  proud, 
Hid  now  and  then  with  sliding  cloud. 

He  said,  "  The  labor  is  not  small ; 
Yet  winds  the  pathway  free  to  all : — 
Take  care  thou  dost  not  fear  to  fall ! " 


SONNET      , 

TO  WILLIAM  CHARLES   MACREADY  * 

Farewell,  Macready,  since  to-night 
we  part. 
Full-handed    thunders    often    have 

confest 
Thy  power,  well-used  to  move  the 
public  breast. 
We   thank   thee   with   one  voice,  and 

from  the  heart. 
Farewell,  Macready;  since  this  night 
we  part. 
Go,  take  thine  honors  home:  rank 

with  the  best, 
Garrick,  and  statelier  Kemble,  and 
the  rest 
Who  made  a  nation  purer  thro'  their 

art. 
Thine  is  it,  that  our  Drama  did  not 
die, 
Nor  flicker  down  to  brainless  pan- 
tomime. 
And  those  gilt  gauds   men-children 
swarm  to  see. 
Farewell,    Macready;    moral,    grave, 

sublime. 
Our  Shakespeare's  bland  and  universal 
eye 
Dwells  pleased,  thro  twice  a  hundred 
years,  on  thee. 


BRITONS,  GUARD  YOUR  OWN.t 

Rise,  Britons,  rise,  if  manhood  be  not 
dead; 

The  world's  last  tempest  darkens  over- 
head; 

♦Read  by  Mr.  John  Forster  at  a  dinner 
given  to  Mr.  Macready,  March  i,  1851,  on  his 
retirement  from  the  stage. 

t  The  Examiner,  1852. 


The  Pope  has  bless'd  him ; 
The  Church  caress'd  him  ; 
He   triumphs;  maybe  we   shall   stand 
alone. 

Britons,  guard  your  own. 

His  ruthless  host  is  bought  with  plur.- 

der'd  gold. 
By  lying  priests  the  peasants'  votes 
controll'd. 

All  freedom  vanish'd, 
The  true  men  banish'd, 
He  triumphs :  maybe  we  shall  stand 
alone. 

Britons,  guard  your  own. 

Peace-lovers  we — sweet  Peace  we  all 

desire — 
Peace-lovers  we — but  who  can  trust  a 
liar?— 

Peace-lovers,  haters 
Of  shameless  traitors, 
We  hate  not   France,  but  this  man's 
heart  of  stone, 

Britons,  guard  your  own. 
We  hate  not  France,  but  France  has 

lost  her  voice. 
This  man  is  France,  the  man  they  call 
her  choice. 

By  tricks  and  spying. 
By  craft  and  lying, 
And  murder  was  her   freedom  over- 
thrown. 

Britons,  guard  your  own. 

"  Vive  I'Empereur  "  may  follow  by  and 
by :  [cry. 

"God  save  the  Queen"  is  here  a  truer 
God  save  the  Nation, 
The  toleration, 
And    the  free   speech  that  makes  a 
Briton  known. 

Britons,  guard  your  own. 

Rome's  dearest  daughter  now  is  cap-. 

tive  France, 
The  Jesuit  laughs,  and  reckoning  on 
his  chance. 

Would  unrelenting. 
Kill  all  dissenting. 
Till  we  were  left  to  fight  for  truth 
alone. 

Britons,  guard  your  own. 


486 


THE  THIRD  OF  FEBRUARY. 


Call  home  your  ships  across  Biscayan 

tides, 
To  blow  the  battle  from  their  oaken 
sides. 

Why  waste  they  yonder 
Their  idle  thunder  ? 
Why  stay  they  there  to  guard  a  foreign 
throne  ? 

Seamen,  guard  your  own. 

We  were  the  best  of  marksmen  long 

ago. 
We  won  old  battles  with  our  strength, 
the  bow. 

Now  practise,  yeomen, 
Like  those  bowmen, 
Till  your  balls  fly  as  their  shafts  have 
flown. 

Yeomen,  guard  your  own. 

His  soldier-ridden  Highness  might  in- 
cline 
To   take     Sardinia,   Belgium,   or    the 
Rhine : 

Shall  we  stand  idle, 
Nor  seek  to  bridle 
His  rude   aggressions,   till    we    stand 
alone  .'* 

Make  their  cause  your  own. 

Should  he  land  here,  and  for  one  hour 

prevail. 
There  must  no  man  go  back  to  bear 
the  tale  : 

No  man  to  bear  it — 
Swear  it  !  we  swear  it ! 
Although  we  fight  the  banded  world 
alone, 

We  swear  to  guard  our  own. 


THE    THIRD     OF    FEBRUx\RY, 

1852.* 

Mix  lords,  we  heard  you  speak;  you 

told  us  all 
That  England's  honest  censure  went 

too  far ; 
That  our  free   press  should  cease  to 

brawl, 

'The  Examiner,  1852,  and  signed   *♦  Merlin." 


Not  Sting  the  fiery  Frenchman  into 
war. 
It  was  an  ancient  privilege,  my  lords. 
To  fling  whate'er  we  felt,  not  fearing, 
into  words. 

We  love  not  this   French  God,  this 
child  of  Hell, 
Wild  War,  who  breaks  the  converse 
of  the  wise ; 

But  though  we   love   kind   Peace  so 
well. 
We  dare  not,  e'en  by  silence,  sanc- 
tion lies.  [draw ; 

It  might  safe  be  our  censures  to  with- 

And  yet,  my  lords,  not  well ;  there  is 
a  higher  law. 

As  long  as  we  remain,  we  must  speak 

free. 
Though  all  the  storm  of  Europe  on 

us  break  ; 
No  little  German  state  are  we, 
But  the  one  voice  in   Europe;  we 

must  speak ; 
That   if   to-night   our  greatness   were 

struck  dead. 
There   might  remain  some  record  of 

the  things  we  said. 

If  you  be  fearful,  then  must  we   be 
bold. 
Our   Britain  cannot   salve  a   tyrant 
o'er. 

Better  the  waste  Atlantic  roll'd 

On  her  and  us  and  ours  for  ever- 
more. 

What !   have  we  fought  for  freedom 
from  our  prime. 

At  last  to  dodge   and  palter  with  a 
public  crime } 

Shall  we  fear  him  1  our  own  we  nevef 

feared. 
From  our  first  Charles  by  force  we 

wrung  our  claims, 
Prick'd  by  the  Papal  spur,  we  rear'd. 
And  flung  the  burden  of  the  second 

James. 
I  say   we  never  fear'd !    and  as  fof 

these, 
We  broke  them  on  the  land,  we  drovo 

them  on  the  seas. 


HANDS  ALL  ROUND. 


4??7 


And    you,   my  lords,  you    make  the 

people  muse, 
In  doubt  if  you  be  of  our  Barons' 

breed — 
Were  those  your  sires  who  fought  at 

Lewes  ? 
Is  this  the  manly  strain  of  Runny- 

mede  ? 
O  fall'n  nobility,  that,  overawed, 
Would  lisp  in  honey'd  whispers  of  this 

monstrous  fraud. 

We  feel,  at  least,  that  silence  here  were 

sin. 
Not  ours  the  fault  if  we  have  feeble 

hosts — 
If  easy  patrons  of  their  kin 

Have   left  the  last  free  race  with 

naked  coasts ! 
They  knew  the  precious  things  they 

had  to  guard : 
For  us,  we  will   not  spare  the  t3rant 

one  hard  word. 

Though  niggard  throats  of  Manchester 

may  bawl. 
What  England  was,  shall   her  true 

sons  forget  t 
We  are  not  cotton-spinners  all, 
But  some  love    England,  and  hei 

honor  yet. 
And  these  in  our  Thermopylae  shall 

stand, 
And  hold  against  the  world  the  honor 

of  the  land. 


HANDS  ALL  ROUND.* 

First    drink   a  health,   this    solemn 
night, 

A  health  to  England,  every  guest ; 
That  man's  the  best  cosmopolite 

Who  loves  his  native  country  best. 
May  freedom's  oak  for  ever  live 

With  stronger  life  from  day  to  day  ; 
That  man's  the  best  Conservative 

Who    lops  the  mouldered    branch 
away. 

•The  Examiner,  1852,  and  signed  "Merlin." 


Hands  all  round  I 
God  the  tyrant's  hope  confound ! 
To  this  great  cause  of  freedom  drink, 
my  friends, 
And  the  great   name  of    England, 
round  and  round. 

A  health  to  Europe's  honest  men  ! 
Heaven  guard  them  from  her  tyrants* 
jails ! 
From  wronged  Poerio's  noisome  den. 
From  iron  limbs  and  tortured  nails 
We  curse  the  crimes  of  southern  kings, 
The   Russian  whips    and  Austrian 
rods — 
We  likewise  have  our  evil  things ; 
Too  much  we  make  our  Ledgers, 
Gods. 

Yet  hands  all  round! 
God  the  tyrant's  cause  confound  ! 
To  Europe's  better  health  we  drink, 
my  friends, 
And  the  great   name  of    England, 
round  and  round ! 

What  health  to  France,  if  France  be 
she. 
Whom      martial      progress      only 
charms  .> 
Yet  tell  her — better  to  be  free 
Than    vanquish    all    the    world  in 
arms. 
Her  frantic  city's  flashing  heats 

But  fire,  to  blast,  the  hopes  of  men 
Why  change  the  titles  of  your  streets  ? 
You  fools,  you'll  want  them  all  again. 

Hands  all  round  ! 
God  the  tyrant's  cause  confound  ! 
To  Franc:e,  the  wiser  France,  we  drink, 
my  friends, 
And   the  great  name  of    England, 
round  ;\nd  round. 

Gigantic  daughtc^r  of  the  West, 

We  drink  to  thee  across  the  flood, 
We  know  thee  and  we  iove  thee  best, 

For  art  thou  not  of  British  blood  ? 
Should  war's  mad  blast  again  be  blown, 

Permit  not  thou  the  tyrant  powers 
To  fight  thy  mother  here  alone. 

But  let  thy  broadsides  roar  with  ours 


488 


r865-i866. 


Hands  all  round  ! 
God  the  tyrant's  cause  confound  ! 
To   our  dear  kinsmen    of  the  West, 
my  friends, 
And  the    great  name  of  England, 
round  and  round. 

O  rise,  our  strong  Atlantic  sons, 
When     war    against    our   freedom 
springs  ! 
O  speak  to  Europe  through  your  guns  ! 

They  can  be  understood  by  kings 
You  must  not  mix  our  Queen  with 
those 
That  wish  to  keep  their  people  fools ; 
Our  freedom's  foemen  are  her  foes, 
She  comprehends  the  race  she  rules, 

Hands  all  round  ! 
God  the  tyrant's  cause  confound ! 
To  our  dear  kinsman  in  the  West,  my 
friends. 
And  the  great  name   of    England, 
round  and  round. 


THE  WAR.* 

There  is  a  sound  of  thunder  afar, 
Storm  in  the  South  that  darkens  the 
day. 
Storm  of  battle  and  thunder  of  war, 
Well,  if  it  do  not  roll  our  way. 
Form  !  form  !  Riflemen  form  ! 
Ready,  be  ready  to  meet  the  storm ! 
Riflemen,  riflemen,  riflemen  form ! 

Be  not  deaf  to  the  sound  that  warns  ? 

Be  not  gull'd  by  a  despot's  plea  ! 

Are  figs  of  thistles,  or  grapes  of  thorns  ? 

How  should  a  despot  set  men  free  ? 

Form  !  form !  Riflemen  form  ! 

Ready,  be  ready  to  meet  the  storm  ! 

Riflemen,  riflemen, riflemen  form! 

Let  your  Reforms  for  a  moment  go. 
Look  to  your  butts  and  take  good 
aims. 
Better  a  rotten  borough  or  so. 
Than  a  rotten  fleet  or  a  city  of  flames ! 
Form  !  form  !  Riflemen  form  ! 
Ready,  be  ready  to  meet  the  storm ! 
Riflemen,  riflemen,  riflemen  form  ! 


♦  London  Times,  May,  9  1859. 


Form,  be  ready  to  do  or  die  J 

Form    in    Freedom's   name  and  the 
Queen's  ! 
True,  that  we  have  a  faithful  ally, 
But  only  the   Devil   knows  what  he 
means 
Form  !  form  !  Riflemen  form  ! 
Ready,  be  ready  to  meet  the  storm! 
Riflemen,  riflemen,  riflemen  form  I 
T. 


ON  A  SPITEFUL  LETTER.t 

Here,  it  is  here — The  close  of  the  year, 
And  with  it  a  spiteful  letter 

My  fame  in  song  has  done  him  much 
wrong, 
For  himself  has  done  much  better. 

0  foolish  bard,  is  your  lot  so  hard. 
If  men  neglect  your  pages  .'' 

1  think  not  much  of  yours  or  of  mine.' 
I  hear  the  roll  of  the  ages 

This  fallen  leaf,  isn't  fam2  as  brief  ? 

My    rhymes    may    have    been    the 
stronger 
Yet  hate  me  not,  but  abide  your  lot ; 

I  last  but  a  moment  longer. 

O  faded  leaf,  isn't  fame  as  brief  > 
What  room  is  here  for  a  hater  ? 

Yet  the  yellow  leaf  hates  the  greener 
leaf. 
For  it  hangs  on6  moment  later. 

Greater  than  I — isn't  that  your  cry  ? 
And  I  shall  live  to  see  it. 
Well,  if  it  be  so,  so  it  is,  you  know ; 
And  if  it  be  so — so  be  it  ! 

O  summer  leaf,  isn't  life  as  brief .? 

But  this  is  the  time  of  hollies. 
And  my  heart,  my  heart  is  an  evergreer ; 

I  hate  the  spites  and  the  follies. 


1865-18664 

I  STOOD  on  a  tower  in  the  wet, 
And  New  Year  and  Old  Year  met, 

t  Once  a  Week,  January  4,  1868. 
*  Good  Words,  Mareh,  1868. 


And  winds  were  roaring  and  blowing  ; 
And  I  said, "  O  years  that  meet  in  tears, 
Have  ye  aught  that  is  worth  the  know- 
ing ? 
Science  enough  and  exploring, 
Wanderers  coming  and  going 


Matter  enough  for  deploring, 
But  aught  that  is  worth  the  knowing  ?** 
Seas  at  my  feet  were  flowing, 
Waves  on  the  shingle  pouring. 
Old  Year  roaring  and  blowing, 
And  New  Year  blowing  and  roaring. 


THE  WINDOW; 


OR, 


THE     SONGS     OF    THE    WRENS, 


WORDS  WRITTEN  FOR  MUSIC. 
THE  MUSIC  BY  ARTHUR  SULLIVAN. 

Four  years  ago  Mr.  Sullivan  requested  me  to  write  a  little  song-cycle,  German  fashion,  foi 
him  to  exercise  his  art  upon.  He  had  been  very  successful  in  setting  such  old  songs  aa 
**  Orpheus  with  his  Lute,"  and  I  drest  up  for  him,  partly  in  the  old  style,  a  puppet  whose  almost 
only  merit  is,  perhaps,  that  it  can  dance  to  Mr-  Sullivan's  instrument.  I  am  sorry  that  my  four- 
year-old  puppet  should  have  to  dance  at  all  in  the  dark  shadow  of  these  days  ;  but  the  music  is 
now  completed,  and  I  am  bound  by  my  promise. 

A.  Tennyson. 

December  ^  1870, 


ON  THE  HILL. 

The  lights  and  shadows  fly  ! 
Yonder  it  brightens  and  darkens  down 
on  the  plain. 
A  jewel,   a  jewel   dear  to  a  lover's 
eye  ! 
O  is  it  the  brook,  or  a  pool ;  or  her 
window  pane. 
When  the  winds  are  up  in  the  morn- 
ing .? 

Clouds  that  are  racing  above. 
And  winds  and  lights  and  shadows  that 

cannot  be  still, 
All  running  on  one  way  to  the  home 

of  my  love 


You  are  all  running  on,  and  I  stand  on 
the  slope  of  the  hill, 
And  the  winds  are  up  in  the  morn- 
ning  ! 

Follow,  follow  the  chase  ! 
And  my  thoughts  are  as  quick   and  as 
quick,  ever  on,  on,  on. 
O   lights,    are    you  flying  over 
sweet  little  face  .? 
And  my  heart  is  there  before  you 
come  and  gone. 
When    the  winds  are  up   in 
morning  ! 

Follow  them  down  the  slope ! 
And  I  follow  them  down  to  the  window- 
pane  of  my  dear. 
And  it  brightens  and  darkens  and 
and  brightens  like  my  hope, 


hei 


the 


49© 


THE  LETTER, 


And  it  darkens  and  brightens  and  dar- 
kens like  my  fear, 
And  the  winds  are  up  in  the  morn- 
ing. 


II 

AT  THE  WINDOW 

Vine,  vine  and  eglantine, 
Clasp  her  window,  trail  and  twine  ! 
Rose,  rose  and  clematis, 
Trail  and  twine  and  clasp  and  kiss 
Kiss,  kiss  ;  and  make  her  a  bower 
All  of  flowers,  and  drop  me  a  flower. 
Drop  me  a  flower. 

Vine,  vine  and  eglantine, 
Cannot  a  flower,  a  flower,  be  mine  ? 
Rose,  rose  and  clematis. 
Drop  me  a  flower,  a  flower,  to  kiss, 
Kiss,  kiss — And  out  of  her  bower 
All  of  flowers,  a  flower,  a  flower, 
Dropt,  a  flower. 


III. 

GONE  ! 
Gone  ! 

Gone  till  the  end  of  the  year, 
Gone,  and  the  light  gone  with  her  and 

left  me  in  shadow  here  ! 
Gone — flitted  away, 
Taken  the  stars  from  the  night  and  the 

sun  from  the  day ! 
Gone,  and  a  cloud   in  my  heart,  and  a 

storm  in  the  air  ! 
Flown  to  the  east  or  the  west,  flitted  I 

know  not  where  ! 
Down   in   the   south  is  a  flash  and  a 

groan :  she  is  there  !  she  is  there  ! 


IV. 

WINTER. 

The  frost  is  here, 
And  fuel  is  dear. 
And  woods  are  sear. 
And  fires  burn  clear, 
And  frost  is  here 

And  has  bitten  the  heel  of  the  going 
year. 


Bite,  frost,  bite  ! 

You  roll  up  away  from  the  light 

The  blue   woodlouse    and   the  plump 

dormouse. 
And  the  bees  are  still'd,  and  the  flies 

are  kill'd, 
And  you  bite  far  into  the  heart  cf  the 

house, 
But  not  in  to  mine. 

Bite,  frost,  bite ! 

The  woods  are  all  the  searer, 

The  fuel  is  all  the  dearer, 

The  fires  are  all  the  clearer, 

My  spring  is  all  the  nearer, 

You  have  bitten  into  the  heart  of  the 

earth, 
But  not  into  mine. 


V. 

SPRING. 

Birds'  love  and  birds'  song 

Flying  here  and  there. 
Birds'  song  and  birds'  love,  _ 

And  you  with  gold  for  hair. 
Birds'  song  and  birds'  love. 

Passing  with  the  weather. 
Men's  song  and  men's  love. 

To  love  once  and  forever. 

Men's  love  and  birds'  love. 

And  women's  love  and  men's  ! 
And  you  my  wren  with  a  crown  of  gold, 

You  my  Queen  of  the  wrens ! 
You  the  Queen  of  the  wrens — 

We'll  be  birds  of  a  feather, 
I'll  be  King  of  the  Queen  of  the  wrens. 

And  all  in  a  nest  together. 


VI. 

THE   LETTER. 

Where  is  another  sweet  as  my  sweet. 
Fine  of  the  fine,  and  shy  of  the  shy  ? 
Fine  little  hands,  fine  little  feet- 
Dewy  blue  eye. 


Shall  I  write  to  her  ?  shall  I  go  ? 

Ask  her  to  marry  me  by  and  by  ? 
Somebody  said  that  she'd  say  no  ; 

Somebody  knows  that  she'll  say  ay  ! 

Ay  or  no,  if  ask'd  to  her  face  ? 

Ay  or  no,  from  shy  of  the  shy  ? 
Go,  little  letter,  apace,  apace. 

Fly! 
Fly  to  the  light  in  the  valley  below— 

Tell  my  wish  to  her  dewy  blue  eye : 
Somebody  said  that  she'd  say  no ; 

Somebody  knows  that  she  '11  say  ay  ! 


VII. 


NO  ANSWER. 

The  mist  and  the  rain,  the  mist  and 
the  rain ! 
Is  it  ay  or  no  ?  is  it  ay  or  no  ? 

And  never  a  glimpse  of  her  window- 
pane  ! 
And  I  may  die  but  the  grass  will 
grow. 

And  the  grass  will  grow  when  I  am 
gone, 

And  the  wet  west  wind  and  the  world 
will  go  on. 

Ay  is  the  song  of  the  wedded  spheres. 
No  is  trouble  and  cloud  and  storm, 
Ay  is  life  for  a  hundred  years, 

No  will  push  me  down  to  the  worm. 
And  when  I  am  there  and  dead  and 

gone. 
The  wet  west  wind  and  the  world  will 
go  on. 

The  wind  and  the  wet,  the  wind  and 
the  wet ! 
Wet  west  wind,  how  you  blow,  you 
blow ! 
And  never  a  line  from  my  lady  yet ! 

Is  it  ay  or  no  ?  is  it  ay  or  no  ? 
Blow  then,  blow,  and  when  I  am  gone. 
The  wet  west  wind  and  the  world  may 
go  on. 


VIII. 

NO  ANSWER. 

Winds  are  loud  and  you  are  dumb: 
Take  my  love,  for  love  will  come, 

Love  will  come  but  once  a  life. 
Winds  are  loud  and  winds  willpasiil 
Spring  is  here  with  leaf  and  grass  ; 

Take  my  love  and  be  my  wife 
After  loves  of  maids  and  men 
Are  but  dainties  drest  again  : 
Love  me  now,  you'll  love  me  then 

Love  can  love  but  once  a  life. 


THE  ANSWER. 

Two  little  hands  that  meet, 
Claspt  on  her  seal,  my  sweet! 
Must  I  take  you  and  break  you, 
Two  little  hands  that  meet  > 
I  must  take  you,  and  break  you. 
And  loving  hands  must  part — 
Take,  take — break,  break — 
Break — you  may  break  my  heart. 
Faint  heart  never  won — 
Break,  break,  and  all  's  done. 


ixb. 
AY 


Be  merry,  all  birds,  to-day. 
Be  merry  on  earth  as  you  never  were 
merry  before. 
Be  merry  in  heaven,  O  larks,  and  far 
away, 
And  merry  forever  and  ever,    and 
one  day  more. 
Why? 
For  it's  easy  to  find  a  rhyme. 

Look,  look,  how  he  flits. 
The  fire-crown'd  king  of  the  wrens, 
from  out  of  the  pine  ! 
Look  how  they  tumble  the  blossom, 
the  mad  little  tits  ! 
'*  Cuck-oo  !  Cuck-oo  !  "   was  ever 
May  so  fine  ? 

Why? 
For  it's  easy  to  find  a  rlvyme. 


492 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


0  merry  the  linnet  and  dove, 

And     swallow     and     sparrow     and 
throstle,  and  have  your  desire ! 
O  merry  my  heart,  you  have  gotten  the 
wings  of  love, 
And  flit  like  the  king  of  the  wrens 
with  a  crown  of  fire. 
Why? 
For  it's  ay  ay  ay,  ay  ay. 


X. 

WHEN  ? 

Sun  comes,  moon  comes, 

Time  slips  away. 
Sun  sets,  moon  sets, 

Love,  fix  a  day. 

"A  year  hence,  a  year  hence." 
"  We  shall  both  be  gray." 

"  A  month  hence,  a  month  hence. 
"  Far,  far  away." 

"A  week  hence,  a  week  hence." 

"  Ah,  the  long  delay." 
"  Wait  a  little,  wait  a  little, 

"  You  shall  fix  a  day." 

"To-morrow,  love,  to-morrow, 
And  that  's  an  age  away." 


Blaze  upon  her  window,  sun, 
And  honor  all  the  day. 


XI. 

MARRIAGE  MORNING. 


Light,  so  low  upon  earth, 

You  send  a  flash  to  the  sun 
Here  is  the  golden  close  of  love, 

All  my  wooing  is  done. 
O  the  woods  and  the  meadows, 

Woods  where  we  hid  from  the  wet, 
Stiles  where  we  stay'd  to  be  kind, 

Meadows  in  which  we  met ! 
Light,  so  low  in  the  vale, 

You  flash  and  lighten  afar  : 
For  this  is  the  golden  morning  of  love^ 

And  you  are  his  morning  star, 
Flash,  I  am  coming,  I  come. 

By  meadow  and  stile  and  wood  : 
O  lighten  into  my  eyes  and  my  heart. 

Into  my  heart  and  my  blood  ! 
Heart,  are  you  great  enough 

For  a  love  that  never  tires } 
O  heart,  are  you  great  enough  for  love  ? 

I  have  heard  of  thorns  and  briers. 
Over  the  thorns  and  briers, 

Over  the  meadows  and  stiles, 
Over  the  world  to  the  end  of  it 

Flash  for  a  million  miles. 


GARETH    AND    LYNETTE. 


The  last  tall  son  of  Lot  and  Bellicent, 

And  tallest,  Gareth,  in  a  showerful 
spring 

Stared  at  the  spate.  A  slender-shafted 
Pine 

Lost  footing,  fell,  and  so  was  whirl'd 
away. 

*'  How  he  went  down,"  said  Gareth, 
"  as  a  false  knight 

Or  evil  king  before  my  lance  if  lance 

Were  mine  to  use — O  senseless  cat- 
aract, 


Bearing  all  down  in  thy  precipitancy—' 
And  yet  thou  art  but  swollen  with  cold 

snows. 
And  mine  is  living  blood :  thou  dost 

His  will, 
The  Maker's,  and  not  knowest,  and  I 

that  know. 
Have   strength   and  wit,  in   my  good 

mother's  hall 
Linger  with  vacillating  obedience, 
Prison'd,  and   kept  and  coaxed    and 

whistled  to — 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE, 


49^ 


Since  the  good  mother  holds  me  still  a 

child - 
Good  mother  is  bad  mother  unto  me  ! 
A   worse   were   better;   yet  no   worse 

would  I. 
Heaven  yield  her  for  it,  but  in  me  put 

force 
To  weary  her  ears  with  one  continuous 

prayer, 
Until  she  let  me  fly  discaged  to  sweep 
In  ever-highering  eagle-circles  up 
To  the  great  Son  of  Glory,  and  thence 

swoop 
Down  upon  all  things  base,  and  dash 

them  dead, 
A  knight  of  Arthur,  working  out  his 

will, 
To  cleanse  the  world.     Why,  Gawain, 

wHen  he  came 
With  Modred  hither  in  the  summer- 
time, [knight. 
Ask'd  me  to  tilt  with  him,  the  proven 
Modred  for  want  of  worthier  was  the 

judge.  [said. 

Then  I  so  shook  him  in  the  saddle,  he 
•  Thou  hast  half  prevail'd  against  me,' 

said  so — he — 
Tho'  Modred  biting  his  thin  lips  was 

mute, 
For  he  is  alway  sullen  :  what  care  I .'  " 

And    Gareth  went,    and    hovering 

round  her  chair, 
Ask'd,  "  Mother,  tho'  ye  count  me  still 

the  child. 
Sweet  mother,  do  ye  love  the  child  ?  " 

She  laugh'd, 
"Thou  art  but  a  wild  goose  to  ques- 
tion it." 
"  Then,  mother,  an  ye  love  the  child," 

he  said, 
*'  Being  a  goose  and  rather  tame  than 

wild. 
Hear  the   child's   story."     "Yea,   my 

well-beloved, 
An  'twere  but  of  the  goose  and  golden 

eggs." 

And  Gareth  answer'd  her  with  kin- 
dling eyes, 
"  Nay,  nay,  good  mother,  but  this  egg 
of  mine 


Was   finer  gold   than  any  goose   can 

lay; 
For  this  an  Eagle,  a  royal  Eagle,  laid 
Almost  beyond  eye-reach,  on  such  a 

palm 
As  glitters  gilded  in  thy  Book  of  Hours. 
And  there   was   ever   haunting  round 

the  palm 
A  lusty  youth,  but  poor,  who  often 

saw 
The    splendor    sparkling  from  aloft, 

and  thought 
*An  I  could  climb  and  lay  my  hand 

upon  it, 
Then  were  I  wealthier  than  a  leash  of 

kings.' 
But  ever  when  he  reacli'd  a  hand  to 

climb, 
One,   that   had    loved  him  from  his 

childhood,  caught 
And  stay'd  him,  'Climb  not  lest  thou 

break  thy  neck, 
I  charge  thee  by  my  love,'  and  so  the 

boy, 
Sweet    mother,    neither    clomb,    nor 

brake  his  neck, 
But  brake  his  very  heart  in  pining  for 

it, 
And  past  away." 

To  whom  the  mother  said, 
"  True  love,  sweet  son,  had  risk'd  him- 
self and  climb'd, 
And  handed  down  the  golden  treasure 
to  him." 

And  Gareth  answer'd  her  with  kin- 

dling  eyes, 
"  Gold  }   said  I  gold  ?— ay  then,  why 

he,  or  she, 
Or  whosoe'er  it  was,  or  half  the  world 
Had  ventured — had  the  thing  I  spake 

of  been 
Mere  gold — but  this  was  all  of  that 

true  steel. 
Whereof  they  forged  the  brand  Excal- 

ibur, 
And  lightnings  play'd  about  it  in  the 

storm, 
And  all  the  little  fowl  were  flurried  at 

it, 


494 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


And  there  were  cries  and  clashings  in 

the  nest, 
That  sent  him  from  his  senses  :  let  me 

go." 

Then   Bellicent    bemoan'd     herself 

and  said, 
•'Hast  thou  no  pity  upon  my  loneli- 
ness ? 
Lo,  where  thy  father  Lot  beside  the 

hearth 
Lies  like  a  log,  and  all  but  smoulder'd 

out! 
For  ever  since  when  traitor  to    the 

King 
He  fought  against  him  in  the  Barons' 

war,  [tory, 

And  Arthur  gave  him  back  his  terri- 
His  age  hath  slowly  droopt,  and  now 

lies  there 
A  yet-warm  corpse,  and  yet  unburiable, 
No  more ;    nor  sees,  nor  hears,   nor 

speaks,  nor  knows. 
And  both  thy  brethren  are  in  Arthur's 

hall, 
Albeit  neither  loved  with  that  full  love 
I  feel  for  thee,  nor  worthy  such  a  love  : 
Stay  therefore  thou ;  red  berries  charm 

the  bird. 
And  thee,  mine  innocent,  the  jousts, 

the  wars,  [pang 

Who  never  knewest  finger-ache,  nor 
Of  wrench'd  or  broken  limb — an  often 

chance 
In  those   brain-stunning  shocks,   and 

tourney-falls, 
Frights  to  my  heart ;  but  stay  :  follow 

the  deer' 
By  these  tall  firs  and  our  fast-falling 

burns ;  [day  ; 

So  make  thy  manhood  mightier  day  by 
Sweet  is  the  chase  :  and  I  will  seek 

thee  out 
Some  comfortable  bride   and  fair,  to 

grace 
Thy    climbing   life,   and    cherish   my 

prone  year. 
Till  falling  into  Lot's  forgetfulness 
I.  know  not  thee,  myself,  nor  anything. 
Stay,  my  best  son  !   ye  are  yet  more 

boy  than  man." 


Then  Gareth,  "  An  ye  hold  me  yet 

for  child. 
Hear  yet  once  more  the  story  of  the 

child. 
For,  mother,  there  was  once  a  King, 

,   like  ours ; 
The   prince   his  heir,   when  tall   and 

marriageable, 
Ask'd  for  a  bride ;  and  thereupon  the 

King 
Set   two   before  him.     One  was  fair, 

strong,  arm'd — 
But  to  be  won  by  force — and  many 

men 
Desired  her;  one,  good  lack,  no  man 

desired. 
And'  these  were  the  conditions  of  the 

King : 
That  save  he  won  the  first  by  force,  he 

needs 
Must  wed  that  other,  whom  no  man 

desired, 
A  red-faced  bride  who  knew  herself  s# 

vile. 
That  evermore  she  long'd  to  liide  her- 
self, 
Nor   fronted  man  or  woman  eye  to 

eye — 
Yea — some   she  cleaved  to,  but  they 

died  of  her. 
And  one — they  call'd  her  Fame :  and 

one,  O  Mother, 
How  can  ye  keep  me  tether'd  to  you — 

Shame ! 
Man  am  I  grown,  a  man's  work  must  I 

do. 
Follow  the  deer  ?  follow  the   Christ, 

the  King, 
Live   pure,  speak  true,   right  wrong, 

follow  the  King — 
Else,  wherefore  born  ? " 

To  whom  the  mother  said, 
"  Sweet  son,  for  there  be  many  who 

deem  him  not, 
Or  will  not  deem  him,  wholly  proven 

King— 
Albeit  in  mine  own  heart  I  knew  him 

King, 
When  I  was  frequent  with  him  in  m| 

youth, 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


495 


And   heard   him   Kingly    speak,   and 

doubted  him 
No   more   than   he,  himself;   but  felt 

him  mine, 
Of  closest  kin  to  me  :   yet — wilt  thou 

leave 
Thine  easeful  bidding  here,  and  risk 

thine  all, 
Life,  limbs,  for  one  that  is  not  proven 

King  ? 
Stay,  till  the  cloud  that  settles  round 

his  birth 
Hath  lifted  but  a  little.     Stay,  sweet 

son." 

And     Gareth      answer'd      quickly, 
"  Not  an  hour. 
So  that  ye  yield  me — I  will  walk  thro' 

fire. 
Mother,  to  gain  it — your  full  leave  to 

go- 
Not  proven,  who  swept  the   dust  of 

ruin'd  Rome 
From  off  the  threshold  of  the  realm, 

and  crush'd 
The  Idolaters,  and  made  the  people 

free  ? 
Who  should  be  King  save  him  who 

makes  us  free  ? " 

So  when  the  Queen,  who  long  had 

sought  in  vain 
To  brealv  him  from  the  intent  to  which 

he  grew, 
Found    her    son's  will   unwaveringly 

one, 
She  answer'd  craftily,  "  Will  ye  walk 

thro'  fire  ? 
Who  walks  thro'  fire  will  hardly  heed 

the  smoke. 
Ay,  go   then,  an  ye   must:  only   one 

proof, 
Before  thou  ask  the  King  to  make  thee 

knight, 
Of   thine   obedience   and  thy  love   to 

me, 
Thy  mother, — I  demand." 

And  Gareth  cried, 
"  A  hard  one,  or  a  hundred,  so  I  go. 
Nay — quick !  the  proof  to  prove  me  to 
the  quick  I " 


But  slowly  spake  the  mother,  look- 
ing at  him, 

"Prince,  thou  shall  go  disguised  to 
Arther's  hall, 

And  hire  thyself  to  serve  for  meats  and 
drinks 

Among  the  scullions  and  the  kitchen- 
knaves. 

And  those  that  hand  the  dish  acros« 
the  bar. 

Nor  shalt  thou  tell  thy  name  to  any 
one. 

And  thou  shalt  serve  a  twelvemonth 
and  a  day." 

For  so  the  Queen  believed  that 
when  her  son 

Beheld  his  only  way  to  glory  lead 

Low  down  thro*  villain  kitchen-vas- 
salage. 

Her  own  true  Gareth  was  too  princely- 
proud 

To  pass  thereby :  so  should  he  rest 
with  her. 

Closed  in  her  castle  from  the  sound  of 
arms 

Silent  awhile   was  Gareth,  then  re- 
plied, 
*'  The  thrall  in  person  may  be  free  in 

soul. 
And  I  shall  see  the  jousts.     Thy  son 

am  I, 
And  since  thou  art  my  mother,  must 

obey. 
I  therefore  yield  me  freely  to  thy  will  ; 
For  hence  will  I,  disguised,  and  hire 

myself 
To    serve    with    scullions    and  with 

kitchen-knaves ; 
Nor  tell  my  name  to  any — no,  not  the 

King." 

Gareth  awhile  lingered   The  mother's 
eye 
Full  of  the  wistful  fear  that  he  would 

go. 
And  turning  toward  him  wheresoe'er 

he  turn'd, 
Perplext  his  outward  purpose,  till  au 

hour, 


496 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


When  waken'd  by  the  wind  which  with  j  But  only  changeling  out  of  Fairyland, 


full  voice 
Swept  bellowing  thro'  the  darkness  on 

to  dawn, 
He  rose,  and  out  of  slumber  calling  two 
That  still  had  tended  on  him  from  his 

birth, 
Before  the  wakeful  mother  heard  him, 

went. 

The  three  were  clad  like  tillers  of  the 
soil. 

Southward  they  set  their  faces.  The 
birds  made 

Melody  on  branch,  and  melody  in  mid- 
air. 

The  damp  hill-slopes  were  quicken'd 
into  green, 

And  the  live  green  had  kindled  into 
flowers, 

For  it  was  past  the  time  ot  Easterday. 

So,  when  their  feet  were  planted  on 
the  plain 

That  broaden'd  toward  the  base  of 
Came  lot. 

Far  off  they  saw  the  silver-misty  morn 

Rolling  her  smoke  about  the  Royal 
mount, 

Thai  rose  between  the  forest  and  the 
field. 

At  times  the  summit  of  the  high  city 
flash'd ; 

At  times  the  spires  and  turrets  half- 
way down 

Prick'd  thro'  the  mist :  at  times  the 
great  gate  shone 

Only,  that  open'd  on  the  field  below  : 

Anon,  the  whole  fair  city  had  disap- 
peared. 

Then  those  who  went  with  Gareth 

were  amazed, 
One   crying,  "  Let   us   go  no    farther. 

lord. 
Here  is  a  city  of  Enchanters,  built 
By  fairy  Kings."     The  second  echo'd 

him, 
"  Lord,  we  have  heard  from  our  wise 

men  at  home 
To  Northward,  that  this  King  is  not 

the  King, 


Who  drave  the  heathen  hence  by  sor- 
cery 

And  Merlin's  glamour."  Then  the  first 
again, 

"  Lord,  there  is  no  such  city  anywhere. 

But  all  a  vision." 


Gareth  answer'd  them 
With  laughter,swearing  he  had  glamour 

enow 
In  his  own  blood,  his  princedom,  youth 

and  hopes. 
To  plunge  old  Merlin  in  the  Arabian 

sea; 
So  push'd  them  all  unwilling  towards 

the  gate, 
And  there  was  no  gate  like  it  under 

heaven  ; 
For  barefoot  on  the  keystone,  which 

was  lined 
And  rippled  like  an  ever-fleeting  wave. 
The  Lady  of  the  Lake  stood :  all  her 

dress 
Wept  from  her  sides  as  water  flowing 

away ; 
But  like  the  cross  her  great  and  goodly 

arms 
Stretch'd  under  all  the  cornice  and  up- 
held : 
And   drops   of  water   fell  from  either 

hand ; 
And  down  from  one  a  sword  was  hung, 

from  one 
A  censer,  either  worn  with  wind  and 

storm ; 
And  o'er  her  breast  floated  the   sacred 

fish; 
And  in  the  space   to  left   of  her,  and 

right, 
Were  Arthur's  wars  m  weird  devices 

done, 
New  things  and   old  co-twisted,  as  if 

Time 
Were  nothing,  so  inveterately,  that  men 
Were  giddy  gazing  there  ;  and  over  all 
High   on   the  top  were    those     three 

Queens,  the  friends 
Of  Arthur,  who  should  help  him  at  his 

need. 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


497 


Then  those  with  Gareth  for   so  long 

a  space 
Stared  at  the  figures,   that   at  last  it 

seem'd 
The    dragon-boughs    and    elvish    em- 

blemings 
Began  to  move,  seethe,  twine  and  curl : 

they  call'd 
To   Gareth,    "  Lord,   the    gateway  is 

alive." 

And   Gareth  likewise  on  them  fixt 

his  eyes 
So  long,  that  ev'n  to  him  they  seem'd 

to  move. 
Out  of  the  city  a  blast  of  music  peal'd. 
Back  from  the  gate  started  the  three, 

to  whom 
From  out  thereunder  came  an  ancient 

man, 
Long-bearded,   saying,  "  Who  be  ye, 

my  sons  ? " 

Then  Gareth,  "  We  be  tillers  of  the 

soil, 
Who  leaving  share  in  furrow  come  to 

see 
The  glories  of  our  King  :  but  these, 

my  men 
(Your  city   moved  so  weirdly  in  the 

mist), 
Doubt  if  the  King  be  King  at  all,  or 

come 
From  Fairyland  ;  and  whether  this  be 

built 
By    magic,   and  by  fairy   Kings   and 

Queens ; 
Or  whether  there  be  any  city  at  all. 
Or  all  a  vision  ;  and  this  music  now 
Hath  scared  them  both,  but   tell  thou 

these  the  truth." 

Then  that   old   Seer   made   answer 

playing  on  him 
And  saying,  "  Son,  I   have   seen  the 

goodship  sail 
Keel  upward  and  mast  downward  in 

the  heavens, 
And  solid  turrets  topsy-turvy  in  air: 
And  here  is  truth ;  but   an  it  please 

thee  not. 


Take  thou  the  truth  as  thou  hast  told 

it  me. 
For  truly,  as  thou  sayest,  a  Fairy  King 
And  Fairy  Queens  have  built  the  city, 

son ; 
They  came  from  out  a  sacred  mountain- 
cleft 
Toward  the  sunrise,  each  with  harp  in 

hand, 
And  built   it  to  the   music  of    their 

harps. 
And  as  thou  sayest,  it   is   enchanted, 

son, 
For  there  is  nothing  in  it  as  it  seems 
Saving  the  King;  tho'  some  there   be 

that  hold 
The  King  a  shadow,  and  the  city  real : 
Yet  take  thou   heed   of  him,   for,   so 

thou  pass 
Beneath  this  archway,  then  wilt  thou 

become 
A  thrall  to  his  enchantmentg,  for  the 

King 
Will  bind  thee  by  such  vows,  as  is  a 

shame 
A  man  should  not  be  bound  by,  yet  the 

which 
No  man  can  keep ;  but,  so  thou  dread 

to  swear, 
Pass   not  beneath    this  gateway,   but 

abide 
Without,  among  the  cattle  of  the  field. 
For,  an  ye  heard  a  music,  like  enow 
They  are  building  still,  seeing  the  city 

is  built 
To  music,  therefore  never  built  at  all, 
And  therefore  built  forever. 

Gareth  spake 
Anger'd,  *'  Old  Master,  reverence  thine 

own  beard 
That  looks  as  white  as  utter  truth,  and 

seems 
Wellnigh  as  long  as  thou  are   statured 

tain 

Why  mockest  thou  the   stranger   that 

hath  been 
To  thee  fair  spoken  ? " 

But  the  Seer  replied, 
"  Know  ye  not  then  the  Riddling  of 
the  Bards  ? 


498 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


*  Confusion,  and  illusion,  and  relation, 
Eluion,  and  occasion,  and  evasion  ? ' 
I  mock  thee  not  but  as  thou  mockest 

me, 
And  all  that  see  thee,  for  thou  art  not 

who 
Thou  seemest,  but  I  know  thee  who 

thou  art. 
And  now  thou  goest  up  to  mock  the 

King, 
Who  cannot  brook  the  shadow  of  any 

lie." 

Unmockingly  the  mocker  ending 
here 

Turn'd  to  the  right,  and  past  along  the 
plain ; 

Whom  Gareth  looking  after,  said,  "  My 
men. 

Our  one  white  lie  sits  like  a  little 
ghost 

Here  o»  the  threshold  of  our  enter- 
prise. 

Let  love  be  blamed  for  it,  not  she, 
nor  I : 

Well,  we  will  make  amends." 

With  all  good  cheer 
He  spake    and   laugh'd,  then  enter'd 

with  his  twain 
Camelot,  a  city  of  shadowy  palaces. 
And  stately,  rich  in  emblem  and   the 

work 
Of  ancient  Kings   who  did  their  days 

in  stone ; 
Which  Merlin's   hand,   the  Mage   at 

Arthur's  court, 
Knowing   all    arts,    had   touch'd   and 

everywhere 
At  Arthur's  ordinance,  tipt  with  lessen- 
ing peak 
And  pinnacle,  and  had  made  it  spire  to 

heaven. 
And  ever  and  anon   a  knight   would 

pass 
Outward,  or  inward   to   the   hall :  his 

arms 
Clash'd  ;  and  the  sound  was  good   to 

Gareth's  ear. 
And  out  of  bower  and  casement  shyly 

glanced 


Eyes  of  pure  women,  wholesome  stars 

of  love ; 
And  all  about  a  healthful  people  stept 
As  in  the  presence  of  a  gracious  King. 

Then    into   hall   Gareth    ascending 

heard 
A  voice,  the  voice  of   Arthur,  and   be- 
held 
Far  over  heads   in   that  long-vaulted 

hall 
The  splendor  of  the  presence  of  the 

King 
Throned,   and    delivering  doom — and 

look'd  no  more — 
But  felt  his  young  heart  hammering  in 

his  ears. 
And  thought,  '*  For  this  half-shadow  of 

a  lie 
The  truthful  King  will  doom  me  when 

I  speak." 
Yet   pressing   on,  tho'  all   in    fear   to 

find    ^ 
Sir  Gawain   or  Sir  Modred,   saw  nor 

one 
Nor  other,   but  in  all    the   listening 

eyes 
Of  those  tall  knights,  that  ranged  about 

the  throne, 
Clear    honor   shining   like   the    dewy 

star 
Of  dawn,  and  faith  in  their  great  King, 

with  pure 
Affection,  and  the  light  of  victory, 
And  glory  gain'd,    and    evermore   to 

gain. 

Then  came  a  widow  crying  to   the 
King, 

"A  boon.   Sir     King!     Thy    father, 
Uther,  reft 

From   my  dead  lord   a  field  with  vio- 
lence. 

For   howsoe'er  at    first  he   proffer'd 
gold. 

Yet,  for  the  field  was   pleasant  in  our- 
eyes. 

We  yielded  not ;  and  then  he  reft  us 
of  it 

Perforce,  and  left  us  neither  gold  nor 
'     field." 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


499 


Said  Arthur,  "  Whether  would  ye  ? 

gold  or  field  ? " 
To  whom  the  woman  weeping,  "  Nay, 

my  lord, 
The  field  was  pleasant  in  my  husband's 

eye." 

And   Arthur,    "Have   thy  pleasant 

field  again. 
And  thrice  the  gold  for  Uther's  use 

thereof. 
According  to  the  years.     No  boon  is 

here, 
But  justice,  so  thy  say  be  proven  true. 
Accursed,  who  from  the  wrongs   his 

father  did 
Would  shape  himself  a  right !  " 

And  while  she  past, 
Came    yet    another  widow  crying  to 

him, 
"A  boon,   Sir  King!     Thine  enemy, 

King,  am  I. 
With  thine  own  hand  thou  slewest  my 

dear  lord, 
A  knight  of  Uther  in  the  Barons*  war, 
When  Lot  and  many  another  rose  and 

fought 
Against  thee,  saying  thou  wert  basely 

born. 
I  held  with  these,  and  loath  to    ask 

thee  aught. 
Yet  lo  1  my  husband's  brother   had  my 

son 
Thrall'd  in  his  castle,  and  hath  starved 

him  dead  ; 
And  standeth  seized  of  that  inheritance 
Which  thou  that  slewest  the  sire  hast 

left  the  son. 
So  tho'  I  scarce  can  ask  it  thee  for  hate, 
Grant  me  some  knight  to  do  the  battle 

for  me. 
Kill  the  foul    thief,  and  wreak  me  for 

my  son." 

Then  strode  a  good  knight  forward, 
crying  to  him, 
"  A  boon,  Sir  King  !  I  am  her  kinsman, 

Give  me   to  right  her  wrong,  and  slay 
the  man." 


Then   came  Sir  Kay,  the  seneschal, 

and  cried, 
"  A  boon.    Sir   King  !  ev'n  that  thou 

grant  her  none, 
This   railer,  that  hath  mock'd  thee  in 

full  hail- 
None  ;  or  the  wholesome  boon  of  gyve 

and  gag." 

But  Arthur,  "  We  sit,  King,  to  help 

the  wrong'd 
Thro'  all  our  realm.     The  woman  loves 

her  lord. 
Peace   to  thee,  woman,  with  thy  loves 

ar.d  hates ! 
The  kings  of  old  had  doom'd  thee  to 

the  flames, 
Aurelius   Emrys  would  have  scourged 

thee  dead. 
And   Uther  slit  thy  tongue  :  but  get 

thee  hence— 
Lest  that  rough  humor  of  the  kings  of 

old 
Return  upon  me  !     Thou  that  art  her 

kin. 
Go  likewise ;  lay  him  low  and  slay  him 

not. 
But  bring  him  here,  that  I  may  judge 

the  right, 
According  to  the  justice  of  the  King : 
Then,  be  he  guilty,  by  that  deathless 

King 
Who  lived  and  died  for  men,  the  man 

shall  die.'' 

Then  came  in  hall  the  messenger  of 

Mark, 
A  name  of  evil  savor  in  the  land, 
The  Cornish  king.    In  either  hand  he 

bore 
What  dazzled  all,  and  shone  far-off  as 

shines 
A  field  of  charlock  in  the  sudden  sun 
Between  two  showers,  a  cloth  of  palest 

gold, 
Which  down  he  laid  before  the  throne, 

and  knelt, 
Delivering,  that  his   Lord,  the  vassal 

king. 
Was  ev'n  upon  his  way  to  Camelot ; 
For  having   heard  that  Arthur  of  his 

grace 


500 


GARE TH  AND  L  YNE TTE. 


Had  made  his  goodly  cousin,  Tristram, 

knight. 
And,  for  himself  was   of  the  greater 

state, 
Being  a  king,  he  trusted  his  liege-lord 
Would  yield  him   this  large  honor  all 

the  more  ; 
So  pray'd  him  well  to  accept  this  cloth 

of  gold, 
In  token  of  true  heart  and  fealty. 

Then  Arthur  cried  to  rend  the  cloth, 

to  rend 
[n  pieces  and  so  cast  it  on  the  hearth. 
An  oak-tree  smouldered  there.     "  The 

goodly  knight ! 
What !  shall  the  shield  of  Mark  stand 

among  these  ?  " 
For  midway  down  the  side  of  that  long 

hall 
A  stately  pile, — whereof  along  the  front 
Some  blazon'd,  some  but   carven,  and 

some  blank, 
There    are    a    treble    range  of  stony 

shields, — 
Rose  and  high-arching  overbrow'd  the 

hearth. 
And  under  every  shield  a  knight  was 

named  : 
For  this  was   Arthur's  custom  in  his 

hall  ; 
When  some  good  knight  had  done  one 

noble  deed. 
His   arms   were    carven   only  ;  but  if 

twain 
His  arms  were  blazon'd  also ;  but  if 

none 
The  shield  was  blank  and  bare  without 

a  sign 
Saving  the  name  beneath  ;  and  Gareth 

saw 
The  shield  of  Gawaiu  blazon'd  rich  and 

bright, 
And   Modred's   blank  as  death ;  and 

Arthur  cried 
To  rend   the  cloth  and  cast  it  on  the 

hearth. 

*'  More  like  are  we  to  reave  him  of 
his  crown 
Than  make  him  knight  because  men 
call  him  king. 


The  kings  we  found,  ye  know  we  stay'd 

their  hands 
From  war  among  themselves,  but  left 

them  kings ; 
Of  whom  were  any  bounteous,  merciful. 
Truth-speaking,     brave,    good    livers, 

them  we  enroll'd 
Among  us,  and  they  sit  within  our  hall. 
But  Mark  hath  tarnish'd  the  great  name 

of  king. 
As  Mark  would   sully  the  low  state  of 

churl  : 
And  seeing  he  hath  sent  us  cloth  of 

gold. 
Return,  and    meet,  and  hold  him  from 

our  eyes, 
Lest  we  should   lap  him  up  in  cloth  of 

lead,  [plots, 

Silenced    forever — Ciaven — a   man  of 
Craft,    poisonous     counsels,    wayside 

ambushings — 
No  fault  of  thine  :  let  Kay,  the  senes- 
chal. 
Look   to    thy  wants,   and    send    thee 

satisfied — 
Accursed,    who    strikes   nor    lets   the 

hand  be  seen ! " 

And  many  another  suppliant  crying 

came 
With  noise  of  ravage  wrought  by  beast 

and  man, 
And  evermore  a   knight  would   ride 

away. 

Last  Gareth  leaning  both  hands 
heavily 

Down  on  the  shoulders  of  the  twain, 
his  men, 

Approach'd  between  them  toward  the 
King,  and  ask'd, 

"  A  boon,  Sir  King  (his  voice  was  all 
ashamed), 

For  see  ye  not  how  weak  and  hunger- 
worn 

I  seem — leaning  on  these  .''  grant  me  t(? 
serve 

For  meat  and  drink  among  the  kitchen- 
knaves 

A  twelvemonth  and  a  day,  nor  seek  m^ 
name. 

Hereafter  I  will  fight." 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


SOI 


To  him  the  King, 
"  A  goodly  youth  and  worth  a  goodlier 

boon ! 
But  an  thou  wilt  no  goodlier,  then  must 

Kay, 
The  master  of  the  meats  and  drinks  be 

thine." 

He  rose  and  past  ;  then  Kay,  a  man 
of  mien 
Wan-sallow  as  the  plant  that  feels  itself 
Root-bitten  by  white  lichen, 

"  Lo  ye  now  ! 
This  fellow  hath   broken    from  some 

Abbey,  where. 
Got  wot,  he  had  not  beef  and  brewis 

enow, 
However  that  might  char.ce  !  but  an  he 

work,  4» 

Like  any  pigeon  will  I  cram  his  crop, 
And  sleeker   shall  he  shine  than  any 

hog." 

Then  Lancelot  standing  near,  **  Sir 

Seneschal, 
Sleuth-hound  thou  knowest,  and  gray, 

and  all  the  hounds  ; 
A  horse  thou  knowest,  a  man  thou  dost 

not  know  : 
Broad  brows  and  fair,  a  fluent  hair  and 

fine, 
High  nose,  a  nostril  large  and  fine,  and 

hands 
Large,  fair  and  fine ! — Some  young  lad's 

mystery — 
But,  or  from  sheepcot  or  king's  hall, 

the  boy 
Is  noble-natured.     Treat  him  with  all 

grace. 
Lest  he  should  come  to  shame  thy  jud- 
ging of  him." 

Then  Kay,  **  What  murmurest  thou 
of  mystery  ? 

Think  ye  this  fellow  will  prison  the 
King's  dish  ? 

"Nay,  for  he  spake  too  fool-like :  mys- 
tery ! 

Tut,  an  the  lad  were  noble,  he  had 
ask'd 

For  horse  and  armor  :  fair  and  fine, 
forsooth  ! 


Sir  Fine-face,  Sir  Fair-hands  ?  but  see 

thou  to  it 
That    thine    own   fineness,    Lancelot, 

some  fine  day 
Undo  thee  not — and  leave  my  man  to 

me." 

So  Gareth  all  for  glory  underwent 
The  sooty  yoke  of  kitchen  vassalage ; 
Ate  with  young  lads  his  portion  by  the 

door. 
And   couch'd  at  night  with  grimy  kit- 

chen-knaves. 
And  Lancelot  ever  spake  him  pleas- 
antly. 
But  Kay  the  seneschal  who  loved  him 

not 
Would  hustle  and  harry  him,  and  labor 

him 
Beyond  his  comrade  of  the  hearth,  and 

set 
To  turn  the  broach,  draw   water,  or 

hew  wood. 
Or  grosser  tasks  ;  and  Gareth  bow'd 

himself 
With  all  obedience  to  the  King,  and 

wrought 
All  kind  of  service  with  a  noble  ease 
That  graced  the  lowliest  act  in  doing 

it. 
And  when   the  thralls  had  talk  among 

themselves. 
And  one  would  praise  the  love  that 

linkt  the  King 
And   Lancelot — how    the    King    had 

saved  his  life 
In  battle  twice,  and  Lancelot  once  the 

King's — 
For  Lancelot  was  the  first  in  Tourna-  < 

ment. 
But   Arthur  mightiest  on    the  battle- 
field— 
Gareth   was  glad.     Or  if  some  other 

told. 
How  once  the  wandering  forester  at 

dawn. 
Far  over  the  blue  tarns  and  hazy  seas, 
On  Caer-Eryri's  highest  found  the  King 
A  naked  babe,  of  whom  the  Prophet 

spake, 
"  He  passes  to  the  Isle  Avilion, 


502 


GARETHAND  LYNETTE. 


He  passes  and  is  heal'd  and  cannot 
.die."— 

Gareth  was  glad.  But  if  their  talk 
were  foul, 

Then  would  he  whistle  rapid  as  any 
lark, 

Or  carol  some  old  roundelay,  and  so 
loud 

That  first  they  mock'd,  but,  after,  rev- 
erenced him. 

Or  Gareth  telling  some  prodigious  tale 

Of  knights,  who  sliced  a  red  life-bub- 
bling way  [held 

Thj-o'  twenty  folds  of  twisted   dragon. 

All  in  a  gap-mouth'd  circle  his  good 
mates 

Lying  or  sitting  round  him,  idle  hands, 

Charm'd  ;  till  Sir  Kay,  the  seneschal, 
would  come  [wind 

Blustering   upon  them,  like  a  sudden 

Among  dead  leaves,  and  drive  them 
all  apart. 

Or  when  the  thralls  had  sport  among 
themselves, 

So  there  were  any  trial  of  mastery, 

He,  by  two  yards  in  casting  bar  or 
stone 

Was  counted  best ;  and  if  there 
chanced  a  joust, 

So  that  Sir  Kay  nodded  him  leave  to 

go, 
Would  hurry  thither,  and  when  he  saw 

the  knights 
Clash   like   the   coming   and    retiring 

wave, 
And  the  spear  spring,  and  good  horse 

reel,  the  boy 
Was  half  beyond  himself  for  ecstasy. 

So  for  a  month  he  wrought   among 

the  thralls  ; 
But  in  the  weeks  that  follow'd,  the  good 

Queen, 
Repentant  of  the  word  she  made  him 

swear. 
And  saddening  in  her  childless  castle, 

sent. 
Between  the  increscent  and  decrescent 

moon, 
Arms  for  her  son,   and    loosed  him 

from  his  vow. 


This,  Gareth  hearing  from  a  squire 

of  Lot 
With  whom  he  used  to  play  at  tourney 

once. 
When  both  were  children,  and  in  lonely 

haunts 
Would  scratch  a  ragged  oval  on  the 

sand, 
And  each  at  either  dash  from  either 

end — 
Shame  never  made  girl  redder  than 

Gareth  joy. 
He  laugh'd;  he  sprang.     "Out  of  the 

smoke,  at  once 
I  leap  from    Satan's  foot  to   Peter's 

knee — 
These  news  be  mine,  none  other's — 

nay,  the  King's — 
Descend  into  the  city  : "  whereon  he 

sought  *■ 

The  King  alone,  and  found,  and  told 

him  all. 

"  I  have  stagger'd  thy  strong  Gawain 

in  a  tilt 
For  pastime ;    yea    he  said  it :    joust 

can  L 
Make  me  thy  knight — in  secret !  let  my 

name 
Be  hidd'n,  and  give  me  the  first  quest, 

I  spring 
Like  flame  from  ashes." 

Here  the  King's  calm  eye 
Fell  on,   and  check'd,  and  made  him 

flush,  and  bow 
Lowly,  to  kiss  his  hand,  who  answer'd 

him, 
"  Son,  the  good  mother  let  me  know 

thee  here, 
And  sent  her  wish  that  I  would  yield 

thee  thine. 
Make  thee  my  knight  ?  my  knights  are 

sworn  to  vows 
Of  utter  iiardihood,  utter  gentleness, 
And  lovmg,  utter  faithfulness  in  love, 
And  uttermost  obedience  to  the  King  " 

Then  Gareth,  lightly  springing  from 
his  knees, 
"  My  King,  for  hardihood  I  can  pro 
mise  thee. 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


503 


For  uttermost  obedience  make  de- 
mand 

Of  whom  ye  gave  me  to,  the  Seneschal, 

No  mellow  master  of  the  meats  and 
drinks ! 

And  as  for  love,  God  wot,  I  love  not 
yet, 

But  love  I  shall,  God  willing." 

And  the  King — 
"Make  thee  my  knight  in  secret  ?  yea, 

but  he, 
Our  noblest  brother,  and  our  truest 

man. 
And  one  with  me  in  all,  he  needs  must 

know." 

"  I-et  Lancelot  know,  my  King,  let 
Lancelot  know, 
Thy  noblest  and  thy  truest !  " 

And  the  King — 
"  But  wherefore  would  ye  men  should 

wonder  at  you  } 
Nay,  rather  for  the  sake  of  me,  their 

King, 
And  the  deed's  sake  my  knighthood 

do  the  deed, 
Than  to  be  noised  of." 

Merrily  Gareth  ask'd, 

"  Have  I  not  earn'd  my  cake  in  bak- 
ing of  it  ? 

Let  be  my  name  until  I  make  my 
name  ! 

My  deeds  will  speak :  it  is  but  for  a 
day." 

So  with  a  kindly  hand  on  Gareth's 
arm 

Smiled  the  great  King,  and  half  unwil- 
lingly 

Loving  his  lusty  youthhood  yielded  to 
him. 

Then,  after  summoning  Lancelot  pri- 
vily, 

"  I  have  given  him  the  first  quest :  he 
is  not  proven. 

Look  therefore  when  he  calls  for  this 
in  hall, 

Thou  get  to  horse  and  follow  him  far 
away. 


Cover  the  lions  on  thy  shield,  and  see 
Far  as  thou  mayest,  he  be  nor  ta'en 
nor  slain." 

Then  that  same  day  there  past  into 
the  hall 

A  damsel  of  high  lineage,  and  a  brow 

May-blossom,  and  a  cheek  of  apple- 
blossom. 

Hawk-eyes  ;  and  lightly  was  her  slen- 
der nose 

Tip-tilted  like  the  petal  of  a  flower; 

She  into  hall  past  with  her  page  and 
cried, 

"  O  King,  for  thou  hast  driven  the 

foe  without, 
See  to  the  foe  within !   bridge,   ford, 

beset 
By  bandits,  every  one   that    owns  a 

tower 
The  Lord  for  half  a^league.    Why  sit 

ye  there  ?     * 
Rest  would  I  not,  Sir  King,  an  I  were 

king. 
Till  ev'n  the  lonest  hold  were  all  as 

free 
From  cursed  bloodshed,  as  thine  altar- 
cloth 
From  that  blest  blood  it  is  a  sin  to 

spill." 

"  Comfort  thyself,"  said  Arthur,  "I 

nor  mine 
Rest :  so  my  knighthood  keep  the  vows 

they  swore. 
The  wastest  moorland  of  our   realm 

shall  be 
Safe,  damsel,  as  the  centre  of  this  hall. 
W  hat  is  thy  name  ?  thy  need  .^ 

*'  My  name  ? "  she  said— 
"  Lynette  my  name  ;  noble ;  my  need, 

a  knight 
To  combat  for  my  sister,  Lyonors, 
A  lady  of  high  lineage,  of  great  lands, 
And  comely,  yea,  and    comelier  than 

myself. 
She  lives  in  Castle  Perilous:  a  river 
Runs  in  three  loops  about  her  living 

place ; 


504 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


And  o'er  it  are  three  passings,  and  three 
knights 

Defend  the  passings,  brethren,  and  a 
fourth, 

And  of  that  four  the  mightiest,  holds 
her  stay'd 

In  her  own  castle  and  so  besieges  her 

To  break  her  will,  and  make  her  wed 
with  him : 

And  but  delays  his  purport  till  thou 
send 

To  do  the  battle  with  him,  thy  chief 
man 

Sir  Lancelot  whom  he  trusts  to  over- 
throw. 

Then  wed,  with  glory ;  but  she  will 
not  wed 

Save  whom  she  loveth,  or  a  holy  life. 

Now  therefore  have  I  come  for  Lance- 
lot." 

Then  Arthur  mindful  of  Sir  Gareth 

ask'd, 
"Damsel,  ye  know  this  Order  lives  to 

crush 
All  wrongers  of  the  Realm.     But  say, 

these  four, 
Who  be  they  t    What  the  fashion  of 

the  men  t " 

*'  They  be  of  foolish  fashion,  O  Sir 
King, 

The  fashion  of  that  old  knight-erran- 
try 

Who  ride  abroad  and  do  but  what  they 
will; 

Courteous  or  bestial  from  the  moment, 

Such  as  have  nor  law  nor  king :  and 
three  of  these 

Proud  in  their  fantasy  call  themselves, 
the  Day, 

Morning-Star,  and  Noon-Sun,  and 
Evening-Star, 

Being  strong  fools ;  and  never  a  whit 
more  wise 

The  fourth  who  always  rideth  arm'd  in 
black, 

A  huge  man-beast  of  boundless  sav- 
agery. 

He  names  himself  the  Night  and 
oftener  Death, 


And  wears  a  helmet  mounted  with  a 
skull 

And  bears  a  skeleton  figured  on  his 
arms. 

To  show  that  who  may  slay  or  scape 
the  three 

Slain  by  himself  shall  enter  endless 
night. 

And  all  these  four  be  fools,  but  mighty 
men. 

And  therefore  am  I  come  for  Lance- 
lot." 

Hereat  Sir  Gareth  call'd  from  where 

he  rose, 
A  head  with  kindling  eyes  above  the 

throng, 
'*  A  boon.  Sir  King — this  quest !  "  then 

— for  he  mark'd 
Kay  near  him  groaning  like  a  wounded 

bull— 
"  Yea,  King,  thou  knowest  thy  kitchen- 
knave  am  I, 
And  mighty  thro'  thy  meats  and  drinks 

am  I, 
And  I  can  topple  over  a  hundred  such. 
Thy     promise,    King,"     and     Arthur 

glancing  at  him, 
Brought    down    a    momentary    brow. 

"Rough,  sudden. 
And  pardonable,  worthy  to  be  knight — 
Go   therefore,"  and  all  hearers  were 

amazed. 

But  on  the  damsel's  forehead  shame, 

pride,  wrath. 
Slew  the  May-white :  she  lifted  either 

arm, 
"  Fie  on  thee.  King  !     I  ask'd  for  thy 

chief  knight, 
And  thou  hast  given  me  but  a  kitchen 

knave." 
Then  ere  a  man  in  hall  could  stay  her, 

turn'd, 
Fled  down  the  lane  of  access  to  the 

King, 
Took  horse,  descended  the  slope  street, 

and  past 
The  weird    white    gate,   and    paused 

without,  beside 
The     field    of     tourney,     murmuring 
I  **  kitchen-knave." 


GARETH AND  LYNETTE. 


505 


Now  two  great  entries  open'd  from 

the  hall, 
At   one  end   one,   that  gave    upon   a 

range 
Of  level   pavement  where    the  King 

would  pace 
At   sunrise,    gazing    over    plain     and 

wood. 
And  down  from  this  a  lordly  stairway 

sloped 
Till  lost  m   blowing  trees  and  tops  of 

towex's. 
And  out  by  this  main  doorway  past  the 

King. 
But  one  was  counter  to  the  hearth,  and 

rose 
High  that  the    highest-crested    helm 

could  ride 
Therethro'    nor    graze :     and  by   this 

entry  fled 
The  damsel  in  her  wrath,  and  on  to 

this 
Sir  Gareth    strode,  and  saw  without 

the  door 
King  Arthur's  gift,  the  worth  of  half  a 

town, 
A  war-horse   of  the  best,  and  near  it 

stood 
The  two  that  out  of  north  had  follow'd 

him. 
This  bare  a  maiden  shield,  a  casque ; 

that  held 
The    horse,   the  spear ;     whereat    Sir 

Gareth  loosed 
A  cloak  that  dropt  from  collar-bone  to 

heel, 
A  cloth  of  roughest  web,  and  cast  it 

down, 
And  from  it  like  a  fuel-smother'd  fire, 
That  lookt    half-dead,   brake    bright, 

and  flash'd  as  those 
Dull-coated  things,  that  making  slide 

apart 
Tiieir    dusk   wing-cases,   all    beneath 

there  burns 
A  jewel'd  harness,  ere  they  pass  and 

flv. 
So    Gareth   ere   he  parted  flash'd   in 

arms. 
Then  while  he  donn'd  the  helm,  and 

took  the  shield 


And  mounted  horse  and  graspt  a  spear, 
of  grain 

Storm-strengthened  on  a  windy  site, 
and  tij)t 

With  trenchant  steel,  around  him 
slowly  prest 

The  people,  and  from  out  of  kitchen 
came 

The  thralls  in  throng,  and  seeing  who 
had  work'd 

Lustier  than  any,  and  whom  they 
could  but  love. 

Mounted  in  arms,  threw  up  their  caps 
and  cried, 

"  God  bless  the  King,  and  all  his  fel- 
lowship ! " 

And  on  thro'  lanes  of  shouting  Gareth 
rode 

Down  the  slope  street,  and  past  with- 
out the  gate. 

So  Gareth  past  with  joy  ;  but  at  the 

cur 
Pluckt  from  the  cur  he  fights  with,  ere 

his  cause 
Be  cool'd  by  fighing,  follows,  being 

named, 
His    owner,  but    remembers   all,  and 

growls 
Remembering,  so  Sir  Kay  beside  the 

door 
Mutter'd  in  scorn  of  Gareth  whom  he 

used 
To  harry  and  hustle. 

"  Bound  upon  a  quest 
With  horse  and  arms — the  King  hath 

past  his  time — 
My  scullion  knave  !     Thralls   to  your 

work  again, 
For  an  your  fire  below  ye  kindle  mine ! 
Will   there    be    dawn    in    West    and 

eve  in  East  ? 
Begone  ! — my  knave  ! — belike  and  like 

enow 
Some  old  head-blow  not  heeded  in  his 

youth 
So  shook  his  wits  they  wander  in  his 

prime — 
Crazed !     How  the  villain  lifted  up  his 

voice. 


5o6 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


Nor  shamed  to  bawl  himself  a  kitchen- 
knave. 
Tut:   he  was  tame   and  meek  enow 

with  me, 
Till    peacock' d    up    with    Lancelot's 

noticing. 
Well — I  will  after  my  loud  knave,  and 

learn 
Whether  he  know  me  for  his  master 

yet. 
Out  of  the  smoke  he  came,  and  so  my 

lance 
Hold;  by  God's   grace,  he  shall  into 

the  mire — 
Thence,  if  the  King  awaken  from  his 

craze, 
Into  the  smoke  again." 

But  Lancelot  said, 
**  Kay,  wherefore  will  ye  go  against  the 

King, 
For  that  did  never  he  whereon  ye  rail. 
But  ever  meekly  served  the  King  in 

thee  t 
Abide :   take  counsel ;  for  this  lad  is 

great 
And  lusty,  and  knowing  both  of  lance 

and  sword." 
"Tut,  tell  not  me,"  said  Kay,  'ye  are 

over-fine 
To    mar    stout  knaves     with    foolish 

courtesies." 
Then  mounted,  on  thro'  silent  faces 

rode 
Down  the  slope  city,  and  out  beyond 

the  gate. 

But  by  the  field  of  tourney  lingering 

yet 
Muttered  the  damsel,  *'  Wherefore  did 

the  King 
Scorn    me .''    for,  were    Sir  Lancelot 

lackt,  at  least 
He  might  have  yielded  to  me  one  of 

those 
Who  tilt  for  lady's  love  and  glory  here. 
Rather  than — O  sweet  heaven  !  O  fie 

upon  him — 
His  kitchen-knave." 

To  whom  Sir  Gareth  drew 
(And  there  were  none  but  few  goodlier 

than  he) 


Shining  in  arms,  "  Damsel,  the  quest  ifl 
mine. 

Lead,  and  I  follow."  She  thereat,  as 
one 

That  smells  a  foul-flesh'd  agaric  in  the 
holt. 

And  deems  it  carrion  of  some  wood- 
land thing,  [nose 

Or  shrew,  or  weasel,  nipt  her  slender 

With  petulant  thumb  and  finger,  shrill- 
ing, "  Hence ! 

Avoid,  thou  smellest  all  of  kitchen- 
grease. 

And  look  who  comes  behind,"  for  there 
was  Kay. 

"  Knowest  thou  not  me  ?  thy  master  ? 
I  am  Kay 

We  lack  thee  by  the  hearth." 

And  Gareth  to  him, 
"  Master  no  more  !   too  well  I   know 

thee,  ay — 
The  most  ungentle  knight  in  Arthur's 

hall." 
"Have  at  thee  then,"  said  Kay;  they 

shock'd,  and  Kay 
Fell  shoulder-slipt,  and  Gareth  cried 

again, 
"  Lead,  and  I  follow,"  and  fast  away 

she  fled. 

But  after  sod  and  shingle  ceased  to 

fly 

Behind  her,  and  the  heart  of  her  good 

horse 
Was  nigh  to  burst  with  violence  of 

the  beat, 
Perforce    she    stay'd,  and    overtaken 

spoke. 
"  What   doest   thou,   scullion,   in    my 

fellowship  } 
Deem'st  thou  that  I  accept  thee  aught 

the  more. 
Or  love  thee  better,  that  by  some  de- 
vice 
Full  cowardly,  or  by  mere  unhappiness, 
Thou  hast  overthrown  and  slain  thy 

master — thou! — 
Dish-washer  and  broach-turner,  loon ! 

— to  me 
Thou  smellest  all   of  kitchen  as  be* 

fore," 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


507 


**  Damsel,"     Sir     Gareth     answer'd 
gently,  "  say 
Whate'er  ye    will,  but   whatsoe'er   ye 

say, 
I  leave  not  till  I  finish  this  fair  quest, 
Or  die  therefor." 

"  Ay,  wilt  thou  finish  it  ? 
Sweet  lord,  how  like  a  noble  knight  he 

talks  ! 
The   listening   rogue  hath  caught  the 

manner  of  it. 
But,  knave,   anon  thou  shalt  be  met 

with,  knave. 
And  then  by  such  a  one  that  thou  for 

all 
The  kitchen  brewis  that  was  ever  supt 
Shalt  not  once  dare  tc  look  him  in  the 

face." 

*•  I  shall  assay,"  said  Gareth  with  a 

smile 
That  madden'd   her,  and    away    she 

flash' d  again 
Down  the  long  avenues   of  a  bound- 
less wood. 
And  Gareth  following  was  again  be- 

knaved. 
*•  Sir  Kitchen-knave,  I  have  miss'd 

the  only  way 
Where  Arthur's  men  are  set  along  the 

wood ; 
The  wood  is  nigh  as  full  of  thieves  as 

leaves : 
If  both  be  slain,  I  am  rid  of  thee  ;  but 

yet, 
Sir  Scullion,  canst  thou  use  that  spit 

of  thine  1 
Fight,  an   thou  canst :  I  have  miss'd 

the  only  way." 

So  till  the  dusk  that  followed  even- 
song 
Rode  on  the  two,  reviler  and  reviled  : 
Then  after  one  long  slope  was  mounted, 

saw, 
Bowl-shaped,  thro'  tops  of  many  thou- 
sand pines, 
A  gloomy-gladed  hollow  slowly  sink 
To  westward — in  the  deeps  whereof  a 

mere. 
Round  as  the  red  eye  of  an  Eagle-owl, 


Under    the  half-dead    sunset  glared;, 

and  cries 
Ascended,  and  there  brake  a  serving- 
man 
Flying  from  out  of  the  black  wood, 

and  crying, 
"They  have  bound  my  lord  to  cast  him 

in  the  mere." 
Then  Gareth,  '*  Bound  am  I  to  right 

the  wrong'd, 
But  straitlier  bound  am  I  to  bide  with 

thee." 
And  when  the  damsel  spake  contempt- 
uously, 
"Lead   and   I   follow,"    Gareth   cried 

again, 
"  Follow,  I  lead  !  "  so  down  among  the 

pines 
He  plunged,  and  tHere,  black-ishadow'd 

nigh  the  mere, 
And  mid-thigh-deep,  in  bulrushes  and 

reed. 
Saw  six  tall  men  haling  a  seventh  along, 
A  stone  about  his  neck,  to  drown  him 

in  it. 
Three  with  good  blows  he  quieted,  but 

three 
Fled    thro'    the    pines;    and    Gareth 

loosed  the  stone 
From  off  his  neck,  then  in  the  mere 

beside 
Tumbled  it;   oilily    bubbled  up    th« 

mere. 
Last,  Gareth  loosed  his  bonds  and  on 

free  feet 
Set  him   a  stalwart   Baron,   Arthur's 

friend. 

"  Well  that  ye  came,  or  else  these 
caitiff  rogues 

Had  wreak'd  themselves  on  me  ;  good 
cause  is  theirs 

To  hate- me,  for  my  wont  hath  ever  been 

To  catch  my  thief,  and  then  like  ver- 
min here 

Drown  him,  and  with  a  stone  about  his 
neck  ; 

And  under  this  wan  water  -wiany  of 
them 

Lie  rottening,  but  at  night  let  go  the 
stone, 


5o8 


GARETH  AND  L  YNETTE. 


And  rise,  and  flickering  in  a  grimly 
light 

Dance  on  the  mere.  Good  now,  ye 
have  saved  a  life 

Worth  somewhat  as  the  cleanser  of 
this  wood. 

And  fain  would  I  reward  thee  worship- 
fully. 

What  guerdon  will  ye  ? " 

Gareth  sharply  spake, 
"  None  !    for  the  deed's  sake  have  I 

done  the  deed. 
In  uttermost  obedience  to  the  King. 
But  will  ye  yield  this  damsel  harbor- 
age } » 

hereat  the  Baron  saying,  "  I  well 
believe 

Ye  be  of  Arthur's  Table,"  a  light  laugh 

Broke  from  Lynette,  "  Ay,  truly  of  a 
truth. 

And  in  a  sort,  being  Arthur's  kitchen- 
knave  ! — 

But  deem  not  I  accept  thee  aught  the 
more. 

Scullion,  for  running  sharply  with  thy 
spit 

Down  on  a  rout  of  craven  foresters. 

A  thresher  with  his  flail  had  scatter'd 
them. 

Nay—for  thou  smellest  of  the  kitchen 
still. 

But  an  this  lord  will  yield  us  harbor- 
age, 

Well.'* 

So  she    spake.    A  league    beyond 

the  wood. 
All  in  a  full-fair  manor  and  a  rich. 
His  towers  where  that  day  a  feast  had 

been 
Held  in  high  hall,  and  many  a  viand 

left. 
And  many  a  costly  cate,  received  the 

three. 
And  there,  they  placed  a  peacock  in  his 

pride 
Before  the  damsel,  and  the  Baron  set 
Gareth  beside  her,  but   at   once  she 

rose. 


"  Meseems  that  their  is  much  dis. 

courtesy, 
Setting  this  knave.  Lord  Baron,  at  my 

side. 
Hear  me — this  morn  I  stood  in  Arthur's 

hall, 
And  pray'd  the  King  would  grant  me 

Lancelot 
To  fight  the  brotherhood  of  Day  and 

Night— 
The  last  a  monster  unsubduable 
Of  any  save  of  him  for  whom  I  call'd — ■ 
Suddenly  bawls  this  frontless  kitchen- 

knave, 

*  The  quest  is  mine  ;  thy  kitchen -knave 

am  I, 
And  mighty  thro'  thy  meats  and  drinks 

am  L' 
Then  Arthur  all  at  once  gone  mad  re- 

plies, 

*  Go  therefore,'  and  so  gives  the  ques' 

to  him — 
Him — here — a   villain   fitter   to    sticW 

swine 
Than  ride  abroad  redressing  women's 

wrong. 
Or  sit  beside  a  noble  gentlewoman." 

Then  half-ashamed  and  part  amazed, 
the  lord 

Now  look'd  at  one  and  now  at  other, 
left 

The  damsel  by  the  peacock  in  his 
pride, 

And,  seating  Gareth  at  another  board. 

Sat  down  beside  him,  ate  and  then  be- 
gan. 

"Friend,  whether  ye  be  kitchen- 
knave,  or  not. 

Or  whether  it  be  the  maiden's  fantasy 

And  whether  she  be  mad,  or  else  the 
King, 

Or  both  or  neither",  or  thyself  be  mad, 

I  ask  not ;  but  thou  strikest  a  strong 
stroke. 

For  strong  thou  art  and  goodly  there- 
withal. 

And  saver  of  miy  life ;  and  thereforyj 
now. 

For  here  be  mighty  men  to  joust  with, 
weigh 


GARE  TH  AND  L  YNE  TTE. 


509 


Whether  thou  wilt  not  with  thy  damsel 

back 
To  crave  again    Sir  Lancelot  of  the 

King 
Tiy  pardon;  I  but  speak   for  thine 

avail, 
The  saver  of  my  life." 

And  Gareth  said, 
"  Full   pardon,   but   I   follow  up   the 

quest, 
Despite  of  Day  and  Night  and  Death 

and  Hell." 

So  when,  next  morn,  the  lord  whose 
life  he  saved 
Had,  some  brief  space,  convey'd  them 

*  on  their  way 
And  left   them  with    God-speed,    Sir 

Gareth  spake, 
*•  Lead,  and  I  follow."     Haughtily  she 
replied, 

"  I  fly  no  more  :  I  allow  thee  for  an 

hour. 
Lion  and  sioat  have  isled  together, 

knave, 
\\\  time  of  flood.     Nay,  furthermore, 

methinks 
Some  ruth  is  mine  for  thee.     Back  wilt 

thou,  fool .'' 
For  hard  by  here  is  one  will  overthrow 
And  slay  thee:  then  will  I  to  court 

again, 
And  shame  the  King  for  only  yielding 

me 
My  champion  from  the  ashes  of  his 

hearth." 

To    whom     Sir    Gareth    answer'd 

courteously, 
"  Say  thou  thy  say,  and  I  will  do  my 

deed. 
Allow  me  for  mine  hour,  and  thou  wilt 

find 
My  fortunes  all  as  fair  as  hers,  who  lay 
Among  the    ashes  and    wedded    the 

King's  son." 

Then  to  the  shore  of  one  of  those 
long  loops 
Wherethro'  the   serpent  river  coil'd, 
thev  came. 


Rough  thicketed  were  the  banks  and 

steep ;  the  stream 
Full,  narrow ;  fhis  a  bridge  of  single 

arc 
Took  at  a  leap ;  and  on  the  further 

side 
Arose  a  silk  pavilion,  gay  with  gold 
In  streaks  and  rays,  and  all  Lent-lily 

in  hue. 
Save  that  the  dome  was  purple,  and 

above. 
Crimson,  a  slender  banneret  fluttering- 
And   therebefore   the  lawless  warrioi 

paced 
Unarm'd,  and  calling,  "Damsel, is  this 

he. 
The  champion  ye  have  brought  from 

Arthur's  hall? 
For  whom  we  let  thee  pass."    "  Nay, 

nay,"  she  said, 
"  Sir    Morning-Star.     The     King     in 

utter  scorn 
Of  thee  and  thy  much  folly  hath  sent 

thee  here 
His  kitchen-knave :  and  look  thou  to 

thyself  : 
See  that  he  fall  not  on  thee  suddenly, 
And   slay   thee    unarra'd :    he   is   noJ- 

knight  but  knave." 

Then  at  his  call,  *'  O  daughters  of 
the  Dawn, 

And  servants  of  the  Morning-Star,  ap- 
proach, 

Arm  "me,"  from  out  the  silken  curtain- 
folds 

Bareofooted  and  bare  headed  three 
fair  girls 

In  gilt  and  rosy  raiment  came :  their 
feet 

In  dewy  grasses  glisten'd  ;  and  the 
hair 

All  over  glanced  with  dewdrop  or  with 
gem 

Like  sparkles  in  the  stone  Avanturine, 

These  arm'd  him  in  blue  arms,  and 
gave  a  shield 

Blue  also,  and  thereon  the  morning 
star. 

And  Gareth  silent  gazed  upon  the 
knight, 


Sio 


GARETH  AND  L  YNETTE. 


Who  stood  a  moment,  ere  his  horse 

was  brought, 
Glorying ;  and  in  the*  stream  beneath 

him,  shone, 
Immingled  with  Heaven's  azure  waver- 

The  gay  pavilion  and  the  naked  feet, 
His  arms,  the   rosy  raiment,  and  the 
star. 

Then  she  that  watch'd  him,  "  Where- 
fore stare  ye  so  ? 

Thou  shakest  in  thy  fear  :  there  yet  is 
time  : 

Flee  down  the  valley  before  he  get  to 
horse. 

Who  will  cry  shame  ?  Thou  art  not 
knight  but  knave." 

Said    Gareth,     ♦' DamseJ,     whether 
knave  or  knight, 
Far  liever  had  I  fight  a  score  of  times 
Than  hear  thee  so  missay  me  and  re- 
vile. 
Fair  words  were  best   for  him  who 

fights  for  thee  ; 
But  truly  foul  are  better,  for  they  send 
That  strength  of  anger  thro'  mine  arms, 

I  know 
That  I  shall  overthrow  him." 

And  he  that  bore 
The   star,  being   mounted,  cried   from 

o'er  the  bridge, 
"  A  kitchen-knave,  and  sent  in  scorn  of 

me  ! 
Such  fight  not  I,  but  answer  scorn  with 

scorn. 
For  this  were  shame  to  do  him  further 

wrong 
Than  set  him  on  his  feet,  and  take  his 

horse 
And  arms,  and  so  return  him  to  the 

King. 
Come,  therefore,  leave  thy  lady  lightly, 

knave. 
Avoid  :  for  it  beseemeth  not  a  knave 
To  ride  with  such  a  lady." 

'*  Dog,  thou  liest. 
1  spring  from  loftier  lineage  than  thine 
own." 


He  spake ;  and  all  at  fiery  speed  tho 

two 
Shock'd  on  the  central    bridge,   and 

either  spear 
Bent  but  not  brake,  and  either  knight 

at  once,  [pult 

Hurl'd  as  a  stone  from  out  of  a  cata- 
Beyond    his   horse's   crupper  and  the 

bridge, 
Fell,  as  if  dead  ;  but  quickly  rose  and 

drew,  [brand 

And  Gareth  lash'd  so  fiercely  with  his 
He  drave  his  enemy  backward  down 

the  bridge. 
The    damsel    crying,    "  Well-stricken, 

kitchen-knave  !  " 
Till   Gareth's  shield  was  cloven ;;  but 

one  stroke 
Laid  him  that  clove   it  grovelling  on 

the  ground. 

Then  cried  the  fall'n,  "lake  not  my 

life:   I  yield." 
And  Gareth,  "  So  this  damsel  ask  it  of 

me 
Good — I  accord  it  easily  as  ji  grace." 
She  reddening,  "  Insolent  scullion  :  I 

of  thee } 
I  bound  to  thee  for  any  favor  ask'd  !  '* 
"Then   shall   he    die."     And   Gareth 

there  unlaced 
His   helmet   as   to   slay   him,  but   she 

shriek'd, 
"  Be  not  so  hardy,  scullion,  as  to  slay 
One   nobler  than   thyself."     "  Damsel, 

thv  charge 
Is    an    abounding     pleasure     to    me. 

Knight, 
Thy   life   is   thine   at    her    command. 

Arise 
And  quickly  pass  to  Arthur's  hall,  and 

say 
His  kitchen-knave  hath  sent  thee.   See 

thou  crave 
His  pardon  for  thy  breaking  of  his 

laws. 
Myself,  when  I  return,  will   plead  for 

thee. 
Thy  shield   is  mine — farewell;    and, 

damsel,  thou 
Lead,  and  I  follow." 


GARE  TH  AND  L  YNE  TTE. 


S" 


A  nd  fast  away  she  fled. 
Then  when  he  came  upon  her,  spake, 

"  Methought, 
Knave,  when  I  watch'd  thee  striking 

on  the  bridge 
The  savor  of  thy  kitchen  came  upon  me 
A  little  faintlier:  but  the  wind  hath 

changed : 
I  scent  it  twentyfold."    And  then  she 

sang, 
"  *  O  morning  star  '  (not  that  tall  felon 

there 
Whom  thou  by  sorcery  or  unhappiness 
Or    some    device,   hast    foully    over- 
thrown), 
'O  morning  star  that  smilest  in  the 

blue, 
O  star,  my  morning  dream  hath  proven 

true, 
Smile  sweetly,   thou  I     my  love  hath 

smiled  on  me.' 

"  But  thou  begone,  take  counsel,  and 
away. 
For  hard  by  here  is  one  that  guards  a 

ford— 
The  second  brother  in  their  fool's  par- 
able- 
Will  pay  thee    all  thy  wages,  and  to 

boot. 
Care  not    for   shame :    thou   art  not 
knight  but  knave.'* 

To     whom     Sir    Gareth   answer'd 

laughingly, 
''Parables.?    Hear   a  parable    of   the 

knave. 
When  I  was  kitchen-knave  among  the 

rest 
Fierce  was  the  hearth,  and  one  of  my 

comates 
Own'd  a  rough  dog,  to  whom  he  cast 

his  coat, 
*  Guard  f«^,'  and  there  was  none  to  nied- 

dle  with  it. 
And  such  a  coat  art  thou,  and  thee  the 

King 
Gave  me  to  guard,  and  such  a  dog 

am  I, 
To  worry,  and  not  to  flee — and — knight 

or  knave — 


The  knave  that  doth  thee  service  as 

full  knight 
Is  all  as  good,  meseems,  as  any  knight 
Toward  thy  sister's  freeing." 

"  Ay,  Sir  Knave  ! 
Ay,  knave,  because  thou  strikest  as  a 

knight. 
Being  but  knave,  I  hate  thee  all  the 

more." 

"  Fair  damsel,  ye  should  worship  me 
the  more. 
That,  being  but  knave,  I  throw  thine 
enemies." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  she  said,  "  but  thou  shalt 
meet  thy  match." 

So  when  they  touch'd  the  second 

riverloop. 
Huge  on  a  huge  red  horse,  and  all  in 

mail 
Burnish'd  to  blinding,  shone  the  Nooft 

day  Sun 
Beyond  a  raging  shallow.     As  if  the 

flower. 
That  blows  a  globe  of  after  arrowlets, 
Ten  thousand-fold  had  grown,  flash'd 

the  fierce  shield. 
All  sun  ;  and  Gareth's  eyes  had  flying 

blots 
Before  them    when    he    turn'd    from 

watching  hrm. 
He  from  behind  the  roaring  shallow 

roir'd 
"  What    doest   thou,  brother,  in  my 

marches  here  ? " 
And  she  athwart  the  shallow  shrill'd 

again, 
"  Here  is  a  kitchen-knave  from  Arthur's 

hall 
Hath  overthrown  thy  brother,  and  hath 

his  arms  " 
"  Ugh  !  "  cried  the   Sun,  and  vizoring 

up  a  red 
And  cipher  face   of  rounded  foolish- 
ness, 
Push'd  horse  across  the  foaming*  of 

the  ford, 
Whom   Gareth    met    midstream;    no 

room  was  there 


12 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


For  lance  or  tourney-skill :  four  strokes 

they  struck 
With  sword,  and  these  were  mighty ; 

the  new  knight 
Had  fear  he  might  be  shamed ;  but  as 

the  Sun 
Heaved  up  a  ponderous  arm  to  strike 

the  fifth, 
The    hoof  of  his   horse  slipt  in  the 

stream,  the  stream 
Descended,  and  the  Sun  was  wash'd 

away. 

Then  Gareth  laid  his  lance  athwart 

the  ford ; 
So  drew  him  home  ;  but  he  that  would 

not  fight, 
As  being  all  Ijone-battercd  on  the  rock. 
Yielded;  and  Gareth  sent  him  to  the 

King.  [thee. 

"  Myself  when  I  return  will  plead  for 
Lead,  and  I  follow."  Quietly  she  led. 
"  Hath   not    the   good   wind,   damsel, 

changed  again .'' " 
"  Nay,  not  a  point :  nor  art  thou  victor 

here.  [ford ; 

There  lies  a  ridge  of  slate  across  the 
His  horse  thereon  stumbled — ay,  for  I 

saw  it. 

** '  O  Sun '  (not  this  strong  fool  whom 

thou.  Sir  Knave, 
Hast   overthrown   thro'   mere   unhap- 

piness), 
'  O  Sun,  that  wakenest  all  to  bliss  or 

pain, 
O  moon,  that  layest  all  to  sleep  again, 
J'hine   sweetly :    twice   my  love   hath 

smiled  on  me.' 

"  What  knowest  thou  of  lovesong  or 

of  love  ? 
Nay,  nay,  God  wot,  so  thou  wert  nobly 

born, 
Thou  hast  a  pleasant  presence.     Yea, 

perchance, 

"  '•  O  dewy  flowers  that  open  to  the 

sun, 
O  dewy  flowers  that  close  wUen  day  is 

done, 
Blow   sweetly :    twice    my  love   hath 

smiled  on  me.* 


"  What  knowest  thou  of  flowers,  ex- 
cept, belike, 

To  garnish  meats  with .?  hath  not  our 
good  King 

Who  lent  me  thee,  the  flower  of  kit- 
chendom, 

A  foolish  love  for  flowers  }  what  stick 
ye  round 

The  pasty  "i  wherewithal  deck  the 
boar's,  head.** 

Flowers  .'*  nay,  the  boar  hath  rose- 
maries and  bay. 

"  '  O  birds,  that  warble  to  the  morn- 
ing sky, 
O  birds,  that  warble  as  the  day  goes 

Smg  sweetly :  twice  my  love  hath 
smiled  on  me.' 

"  What  knowest  thou  of  birds,  lark, 

mavis,  merle. 
Linnet?    what   dream    ye   when   they 

utter  forth 
May-music  growing  with  the  growing 

light, 
Their  sweet  sun-worship  ?  these  be  for 

the  snare 
(So  runs  thy  fancy)  these  be  for  the 

spit. 
Larding  and  basting.     See  thou  have 

not  now 
Larded  thy  last,  except  thou  turn  and 

fly. 
There    stands  the   third  fool  of   their 

allegory." 

For  there  beyond  a  bridge  of  treble 
bow, 

All  in  a  rose-red  from  the  west,  and 
all 

Naked  it  seem'd,  and  glowing  in  the 
broad 

Deep-dimpled  current  underneath,  the 
knight, 

That  named  himself  the  Star  of  Even- 
ing, stood. 

And  Gareth,  "  Wherefore  waits  the 
madman  there 
Naked  in   open  dayshine?"    "Nay,** 
she  cried 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


513 


*  Not   naked,  only    wrapt  in  harden 'd 

skins 
That  fit  him  like  his  own ;  and  so  ye 

cleave 
His  armor  off  him,  these  will  turn  the 

blade." 

Then  the  third  brother  shouted  o'er 

the  bridge. 
"  O  brother-star,  why  shine  ye  here   so 

low? 
Thy   ward  is   higher  up :  but  have  ye 

slain 
The    damsel's    champion?"    and   the 

damsel  cried, 

"No   star   of   thine,  but   shot  from 

Arthur's  heaven 
With  all  disaster  unto  thine  and  thee  ! 
For  both  thy   younger  brethren  have 

gone  down 
Before   this  youth;  and  so  wilt  thou, 

Sir  Star : 
Art  thou  not  old  ?  " 

"  Old,  damsel,  old  and  hard, 
Old-,   with  the   might   and   breath    of 

twenty  boys," 
Said   Gerath.   "  Old,  and  over-bold  in 

brag ! 
But   that  same  strength   which  threw 

the  Morning- Star 
Can  throw  the  Evening." 

Then  that  other  blew 

A  hard  and  deadly  note  upon  the  horn. 

"  Approach  and  arm  me  !  "  With  slow 
steps  from  out 

An  old  storm-beaten,  russet,  many- 
stain'd 

Pavilion,  forth  a  grizzled  damsel  came. 

And  arm'd  him  in  old  arms,  and 
brought  a  helm 

With  but  a  drying  evergreen  for  crest, 

And  gave  a  shield  whereon  the  Star  of 
Even 

Half-tarnish'd  and  half-bright,  his  em- 
blem, shone. 

But  when  it  glitter' d  o'er  the  saddle- 
bow, 

They  madly  hurl'd  together  on  the 
bridge, 


And   Gareth   overthrew   him,  lighted, 

drew. 
There  met  him  drav/n,  and   overthrew 

him  again. 
But  up  like  fire  he  started :  and  as   oft 
As  Gareth  brought  him   grovelling  on 

his  knees. 
So  many  a  time  he  vaulted  up  again  ; 
Till  Gareth  panted  hard,  and  his  great 

heart, 
Foredooming   all   his   trouble   was  in 

vain, 
Labor'd  within   him,  for  he  seem'd  as 

one 
That  all  in  later,  sadder  age  begins 
To  war  against  ill  uses  of  a  life, 
But   these  from  all  his  life  arise,  and 

cry, 
"  Thou  hast  made   us  lords,  and  canst 

not  put  us  down  ! " 
He  half   despairs  ;  so  Gareth  seem'd 

to  strike 
Vainly,  the   damsel    clamoring  all   the 

while, 
"  Well      done,      knave-knight,      well- 
stricken,  O  good  knight-knave — 
O  knave,  as  noble    as   any   of  all  the 

knights — 
Shame  me  not,  shame  me  not.     I  have 

prophesied — 
Strike,  thou  art  worthy  of   the  Table 

Round — 
His  arms  are  old,  he  trusts  the  harden'd 

skin — 
Strike — strike — the    wind    will    never 

change  again." 
And   Gareth   hearing   ever    stronglier 

smote. 
And  hew'd  great  pieces  of  his   armor 

off  him, 
But  lash'd  in  vain  against  the  harden'd 

skin,  [more 

And  could  not  wholly  bring  him  under, 
Thau  loud  Southwesterns,  rolling  ridge 

on  ridge, 
The  buoy  that  rides  at  sea,  and  dips 

and  springs 
i^orever  ;  till   at    length  Sir   Gareth's 

brand 
Clash 'd  his,  and  brake  it  utterly  to  the 

hUt. 


514 


GARE  TH  AND  L  YNE  TTE. 


*'I  have  thee  now;"  but  forth  that 
other  sprang, 

And,  all  unknightlike,  writhed  his  wiry 
arms 

Around  him,  till  he  felt,  despite  his 
mail, 

Strangled,  but  straining  ev'n  his  utter- 
most 

Cast,  and  so  hurl'd  him  headlong  o'er 
the  bridge 

Down  to  the  river,  sink  or  swim,  and 
cried, 

**  Lead,  and  I  follow." 

But  the  damsel  said, 
"I  lead  no  longer;  ride  thou  at  my 

side ; 
Thou  art  the  kingliest  of  all  kitchen- 
knaves. 

*'  *  O  trefoil,  sparkling  on  the  rainy 

plain, 
O  rainbow  with  three  colors  after  rain, 
Shine   sweetly:   thrice  my  love  hath 

smiled  on  me.' 

"  Sir, — and  good  faith,  I  fain  had 
added — knight, 

But  that  I  heard  thee  call  thyself  a 
knave, — 

Shamed  am  I  that  I  so  rebuked,  re- 
viled, 

Missaid  thee ;  noble  I  am ;  and  thought 
the  King 

Scorn'd  me  and  mine;  and  now  thy 
pardon,  friend, 

For  thou  hast  ever  answer'd  courte- 
ously, 

And  wholly  bold  thou  art,  and  meek 
withal 

As  any  of  Arthur's  best,  but,  being 
knave, 

Hast  mazed  my  wit:  I  marvel  what 
thou  art." 

"  Damsel,"  he  said,  "  ye  be  not  all  to 
blame. 

Saving  that  ye  mistrusted  our  good 
King 

Would  handle  scorn,  or  yield  thee,  ask- 
ing, one 


Not  fit  to  cope  thy  quest.     Ye   said 

your  say  ; 
Mine     answer  was  my  deed.      Good 

sooth!  I  hold 
He  scarce  is  knight,  yea  but  half-man, 

nor  meet 
To  fight  for  gentle   damsel,  he,  who 

lets 
His  heart  be  stirr'd  with  any  foolish 

heat 
At  any  gentle  damsel's  wayardness. 
Shamed .-'  care  not  I    thy  foul  sayings 

fought  for  me : 
And  seeing  now  my  words  are  fair, 

methinks, 
There  rides  no  knight,  not  Lancelot, 

his  great  self. 
Hath  force  to  quell  me." 

Nigh  upon  that  hour 
When  the  lone  hern  forgets  his  melan- 
choly. 
Lets  down  his  other  leg,  and  stretch- 
ing dreams 
Of  goodly  supper  in  the  distant  pool. 
Then  turn'd  the  noble  damsel  smiling 

at  him, 
And  told  him  of  a  cavern  hard  at  hand, 
Where   bread  and   baken  meats   and 

good  red  wine 
Of  Southland,  which  the  Lady  Lyonors 
Had  sent  her  coming  champion,  waited 
him. 

Anon    they    past  a    narrow    comb 

wherein 
Were  slabs  of  rock  with  figures,  knights 

on  horse 
Sculptured,  and  deckt  in  slowly  waning 

hues. 
"  Sir  Knave,  my  knight,  a  hermit  once 

was  here. 
Whose  holy  hand  hath  fashion'd  on 

the  rock 
The  war  of  Time  against  the  soul  of 

man. 
And  yon  four  fools  have  suck'd  their 

allegory 
From  these  damp  walls,  and  taken  but 

the  form. 
Know  ye   not    these  ? "    and    Gareth 

lookt  and  read — 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


S'5 


In  letters  like  to  those  the  vexillary 
Hath  left  crag-carven  o'er  the  stream- 
ing Gelt— 
"Phosphorus,"  then  "Meridies" — 

"  Hesperus  " — 
"  Nox  "  —  "  Mors,"     beneath     five 

figures,  armed  men, 
Slab   after  slab,   their  faces  forward 

all. 
And  running  down  the  Soul,  a  Shape 

that  fled 
With  broken  wings,  torn  raiment  and 

loose  hair, 
For  help  and  shelter  to  the  hermit's 

cave. 
•*  Follow  the  faces,  and    we  find  it. 

Look, 
Who  comes  behind  ? " 

For  one — delay'd  at  first 
Thro'  helping  back  the  dislocated  Kay 
To  Camelot,  then  by  what  thereafter 

chanced. 
The  damsel's  headlong  error  thro'  the 

wood — 
Sir  Lancelot  having  swum  the  river- 
loops — 
His  blue   shield-lions  cover'd— softly 

drew  [star 

Behind  the  twain,  and  when  he  saw  the 
Gleam,  on  Sir  Gareth's  turning  to  him, 

cried, 
*'  Stay,  felon   knight,  I  avenge  me  for 

my  friend." 
And  Gareth  crying  prick'd  against  the 

cry; 
But  when  they  closed — in  a  moment — 

at  one  touch 
Of  that  skill'd  spear,  the  wonder  of  the 

world — 
Went  sliding  down  so  easily,  and  fell, 
That  when  he  found  the  grass  within 

his  hands 
He  laugh'd  ;  the  laughter  jarr'd  upon 

Lynette : 
Harshly  she  ask'd  him,  *  Shamed  and 

overthrown, 
And  tumbled  back   into  the  kitchen- 
knave, 
Why  laugh  ye  t  that  ye  blew  your  boast 

in  vain } " 


"  Nay,  noble   damsel,  but  that   I,  the 

son 
Of  old  King  Lot  and  good  Queen  13el- 

licent, 
And  victor  of  the  bridges  and  the  ford, 
And  knight  of  Arthur,  here  lie  thrown 

by  whom 
I  know  not,  all  thro'  mere  unhappi- 

ness — 
Device  and  sorcery  and  unhappiness — 
Out,   sword ;    we   are   thrown  !  "    and 

Lancelot  answered,  "  Prince, 

0  Gareth — thro'  the  mere  unhappiness 
Of  one  who  came  to  help  thee  not  to 

harm, 
Lancelot,  all  and  as  glad  to  -find  thee 

whole, 
As  on  the  day  when  Arthur  knighted 

him." 

Then  Gareth,  "  Thou— Lancelot  !— 
thine  the  hand 

That  threw  me  ?  And  some  chance  to 
mar  the  boast 

Thy  brethren  of  thee  make — which 
could  not  chance — 

Had  sent  thee  down  before  a  lesser 
spear 

Shamed  had  I  been  and  sad — O  Lan- 
celot—thou ! " 

Whereat     the     maiden,     petulant, 

**  Lancelot, 
Why  came  ye  not,  when  call'd  ?  and 

wherefore  now 
Come  ye,  not  call'd  .?    I  gloried  in  my 

knave, 
Who    being     still     rebuked,     would 

answer  still 
Courteous  as  any   knight — but  now,  if 

knight, 
The  marvel  dies,  and  leaves  me  fool'd 

and  trick'd, 
And  only  wondering  wherefore  play'd 

upon  : 
And  doubtful   whether  I  and  mine  be 

scorn'd. 
Where    should    be    truth    if    not  ia 

Arthur's  hall, 
In  Arthur's  presence .''   Knight,  knave, 

prince  and  fool, 

1  hate  thee  and  forevei." 


Si6 


GARETH  ^iND  LYNETTR. 


And  Lancelot  said, 
"  Blessed  be  thou,  Sir  Gareth  !  knight 

art  thou 
To  the  King's  best  wish.     O  damsel, 

be  ye  wise 
To  call  him  shamed,  who  is  but  over- 
thrown ? 
Thrown  have   I   been,  nor  once,   but 

many  a  time. 
Victor  from  vanquish'd  issues  at  the 

last. 
And  overthrower    from    being   over- 
thrown. 
With  sword  we  have  not  striven  ;  and 

thy  good  horse 
And  thou  art  weary  ;  yet  not  less  I  felt 
Thy  manhood  thro'  that  wearied  lance 

of  thine. 
Tell  hast  thou  done  :  for  all  the  stream 

is  freed, 
And  thou  hast  wreak'd  his  justice  on 

his  foes, 
And    when     reviled,     hast    answer'd 

graciously. 
And  makest  merry,  when  overthrown. 

Prince,  Knight, 
Hail,  Knight  and  Prince,  and  of  our 

Table  Round !  " 

And  then  when  turning  to  Lynette 

he  told 
The  tale  of  Gareth,  petulantly  she  said, 
**  Ay   well — ay   well — for  worse   than 

being  fool'd 
Of  others,  is  to   fool   one's  self.     A 

cave. 
Sir  Lancelot,  is  hard  by,  with  meats 

and  drinks 
And  forage  for  the  horse,  and  flint  for 

fire. 
But  all  about  it  flies  a  honeysuckle. 
Seek,  till  we  find."     And  when  they 

sought  and  found. 
Sir  Gareth  drank  and  ate,  and  all  his 

life 
Past  into  sleep ;  on  whom  the  maiden 

gazed. 
**  Sound  sleep  be  thine  !  sound  cause 

to  sleep  hast  thou. 
Wake  lusty !     Seem  I  not  as  tender  to 

him 


As  any  mother  ?     Ay,  but  such  a  one 

As  all  day  long  hath  rated  at  her  child, 

And  vext  his  day,  but  blesses  him 
asleep — 

Good  lord,  how  sweetly  smells  the 
honeysuckle 

In  the  hush'd  night,  as  if  the  world 
were  one 

Of  utter  peace,  and  love,  and  gentle- 
ness! 

O  Lancelot,  Lancelot  " — and  she  clapt 
her  hands — 

"  Full  merry  am  I  to  find  my  goodly 
knave 

Is  knight  and  noble.  See  now,  sworn 
have  I, 

Else  yon  black  felon  had  not  let  me 
pass. 

To  bring  thee  back  to  do  the  battle 
with  him. 

Thus  an  thou  goest,  he  will  fight  thee 
first : 

Who  doubts  thee  victor .?  so  will  my 
knight-knave 

Miss  the  full  cower  of  this  accomplish- 
ment." 

Said  Lancelot,  "  Peradventure  he 
ye  name, 

May  know  my  shield.  Let  Gareth,  an 
he  will. 

Change  his  for  mine,  and  take  my 
charger,  fresh. 

Not  to  be  spurr'd,  loving  the  battle  as 
well 

As  he  that  rides  him."  "  Lancelot- 
like,"  she  said, 

"  Courteous  in  this,  Lord  Lancelot,  as 
in  all." 

And     Gareth,    wakening,     fiercely 

clutch'd  the  shield ; 
"  Ramp,  ye  lance-splintering  lions,  on 

whom  all  spears 
Are  rotten  sticks  !  ye  seem  agape  to 

roar  ! 
Yea,  ramp  and  roar  at  leaving  of  your 

lord  !— 
Care  not,  good  beasts,  so  well  I  care 

for  you. 
O  noble  Lancelot,  from  my  hold   on 

these 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


517 


Streams   virtue — fire — thro'    one    that 

will  not  shame 
Even  the  shadow  of  Lancelot   under 

shield. 
Hence :  let  us  go. 

Silent  the  silent  field 

They  traversed.  Arthur's  harp  tho' 
summer- wan, 

In  counter  motion  to  the  clouds,  al- 
lured 

The  glance  of  Gareth  dreaming  on  his 
liege. 

A  star  shot  :  "  Lo,"  said  Gareth,  "  the 
foe  falls  !  " 

An  owl  whoopt :  "  Hark  the  victor 
pealing  there !  " 

Suddenly  she  that  rode  upon  his  left 

Clung  to  the  shield  that  Lancelot  lent 
him  crying, 

^'* Yield,  yield  him  this  again:  'tis  he 
must  fight : 

I  curse  the  tongue  that  all  thro'  yester- 
day 

Reviled  thee,  and  hath  wrought  on 
Lancelot  now 

To  lend  thee  horse  and  shield  : 
wonders  ye  have  done ; 

Miracles  ye  cannot :  here  is  glory  enow 

In  having  flung  the  three :  I  see  thee 
maim'd, 

Mangled  :  I  swear  thou  canst  not  fling 
the  fourth  ". 

"And  wherefore,  damsel?  tell    me 

all  ye  know. 
Ye  cannot  scare  me ;  nor  rough  face, 

or  voice,  [ery 

Brute  bulk  of  limb,  or  boundless  savag- 
Appall  me  from  the  quest." 

"  Nay,  Prince,"  she  cried, 
"  God  wot,  I   never  look'd  upon  the 

face, 
Seeing  he  never  rides  abroad  by  day ; 
But  watch'd  him  have  I  like  a  phantom 

pass 
Chilling  the  night :  nor  have   I  heard 

the  voice. 
Always  he  made  his  mouthpiece  of  a 

page 
Who  came  and  went,  and  still  reported 

him 


As  closing  in  himself  the  strength  of 
ten. 

And  when  his  anger  tare  him,  massa- 
cring 

Man,  woman,  lad  and  girl — yea,  the 
soft  babe — 

Some  hold  that  he  hath  swallow'd  in- 
fant flesh. 

Monster  !  O  prince,  I  went  for  Lance- 
lot first. 

The  quest  is  Lancelot's :  give  him  back 
the  shield." 

Said  Gareth  laughing,  "  An  he  fight 
for  this, 
Belike  he  wins  it  as  the  better  man  : 
Thus — and  not  else  ? " 

But  Lancelot  on  him  urged 
All  the  devisings  of  their  chivalry 
Where  one  might  meet  a  mightier  than 

himself ; 
How    best    to    manage   horse,  lance, 

sword  and  shield. 
And  so  fill    up  the   gap   where   force 

might  fail 
With  skill  and  fineness.     Instant  were 

his  words. 

Then  Gareth,  "Here  he  rules.     I 

know  but  one — 
To  dash  against  mine  enemy  and  to 

win.  [joust, 

Yet  have  I  watch'd  thee  victor  in  tlie 
And  seen  thy  way."     '*  Heaven  helj? 

thee,"  sigh'd  Lynette. 

Then  for  a  space,  and  under  cloud 

that  grew 
To    thunder-gloom   palling  all   stars, 

they  rode 
In  converse  till  she  made  her  palfrey 

halt. 
Lifted   an  arm,  and   softly  whisper'd, 

"There." 
And  all  the  three  were  silent  seeing, 

pitch'd 
Beside  the  Castle  Perilous  on  flat  field, 
A  huge  pavilion  like  a  mountain  peak 
Sunder  the  glooming  crimson  «n  the 

marge. 


5^8 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


Black,  with  black  banner,  and  a  long 

black  horn 
Beside  it  hanging;  which  Sir  Gareth 

graspt, 
And  so,  before  the  two  could  hinder 

him. 
Sent  all  his  heart  and  breath  thro'  all 

the  horn. 
Echo'd  the   walls;  a   light  twinkled; 

anon 
Came  lights  and  lights,  and  once  again 

he  blew ; 
Whereon  were  hollow  tramplings  up 

and  down  [past ; 

And  muffled  voices  heard,  and  shadows 
Till  high  above   him,  circled  with  her 

maids. 
The  Lady  Lyonors  at  a  window  stood, 
Beautiful  among  lights,  and  waving  to 

him 
White  hands,  and  courtesy ;  but  when 

the  Prince 
Three  times    had  blown — after    long 

hush — at  last — 
The  huge  pavilion  slowly  yielded  up, 
Thro'  those  black  foldings,  that  which 

housed  therein. 
High  on  a  nightblack  horse,  in  night- 
black  arms, 
With  white  breast-bone,  and  barren  ribs 

of  Death, 
And  crowii'd  with  fleshless  laughter — 

some  ten  steps — 
In  the    half  light — through  the    dim 

dawn — advanced 
The  monster,  and  then  paused,  and 

spake  no  word. 

But  Gareth  spake  and  all  indig- 
nantly. 

"Fool,  for  thou  hast,  men  say,  the 
strength  of  ten. 

Canst  thou  not  trust  the  limbs  thy  God 
hath  given, 

But  must,  to  make  the  terror  of  thee 
more, 

Trick  thyself  out  in  ghastly  imageries 

Of  that  which  Life  hath  done  with, 
and  the  clod, 

L«9S  dull  than  thou,  will  hide  with 
mantling  flowers 


As   if  for   pity  ? "     But  he   spake  nr, 

word ;  [swoon'd ; 

Which  set  the  horror  higher  :  a  maiden 
The  Lady  Lyonors  wrung  her  hands 

and  wept, 
As  doom'd  to  be  the  bride  of  Night 

and  Death; 
Sir  Gareth's  head  prickled  beneath  his 

helm; 
And  ev'n  Sir  Lancelot  thro'  his  warm 

blood  felt 
Ice  strike,   and   all   that  mark'd   him 

were  aghast. 

At  once  Sir  Lancelot's  charger 
fiercely  neigh'd — 

At  once  the  black  horse  bounded  for- 
ward with  him. 

Then  those  that  did  not  blink  the  ter- 
ror, saw 

That  Death  was  cast  to  ground,  and 
slowly  rose. 

But  with  one  stroke  Sir  Gareth  split 
the  skull.  [lay. 

Half  fell  to  right  and  half  to  left  and 

Then  with  a  stronger  buffet  he  clove 
the  helm 

As  throughly  as  the  skull ;  and  out 
from  this  [boy 

Issued  the  bright  face  of  a  blooming 

Fresh  as  a  flower  new-born,  and  cry- 
ing, "  Knight, 

Slay  me  not :  my  three  brethren  bade 
m.e  do  it, 

To  make  a  horror  all  about  the  house. 

And  stay  the  world  from  Lady  Lyonors. 

They  never  dream'd  the  passes  would 
be  past." 

Answer'd  Sir  Gareth  graciously  to  one 

Not  many  a  moon  his  younger,  "  My 
fair  child. 

What  madness  made  thee  challenge 
the  chief  knight 

Of  Arthur's  hall.?"  "Fair  Sir,  they 
bade  me  do  it. 

They  hate  the  King,  and  Lancelot,  the 
King's  friend. 

They  hoped  to  slay  him  somewhere  on 
the  stream, 

They  never  dream'd  the  passes  could 
be  past." 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


519 


Then  sprang  the  happier  day  from 

under-ground  ; 
And   Lady   Lyonors   and   her    house, 

with  dance 
And  revel  and  song,  made  merry  over 

Death, 
As  being  after  all  their  foolish  fears 


And   horrors   only  prov'n  a  blooming 

boy.  (the  quest 

So  large  mirth  lived,  and  Gareth  won 

And  he  that  k)ld  the  tale   in   older 
times 
Says  that  Sir  Gareth  wedded  Lyonors, 
But  he,  that  told  it  later,  says  Lynette. 


THE    LAST    TOURNAMENT 


Dagonet,  the  fool,  whom  Gawain  in 

his  moods 
Had  made   mock-knight   of  Arthur's 

Table  Round, 
At  Camelot,  high  above  the  yellowing 

woods, 
Danced  like  a  wither'd  leaf  before  the 

Hall. 
And  toward  him  from  the  Hall,  with 

harp  in  hand. 
And  from  the  crown  thereof  a  carcanet 
Of  ruby  swaying  to  and  fro,  the  prize 
Of  Tristram  in  the  jousts  of  yesterday, 
Came  Tristram,  saying,  "  Why  skip  ye 

so,  Sir  Fool  ? " 

For  Arthur  and  Sir  Lancelot  riding 

once 
Far  down  beneath  a  winding  wall  of 

rock 
Heard  a  child  wail.     A  stump  of  oak 

half-dead, 
From  roots   like   some   black  coil  of 

carven  snakes 
Clutched  at  the  crag,  and  started  thro' 

midair 
Bearing  an  eagle's  nest :  and  thro'  the 

tree 
Rush'd  ever  a  rainy  wind,  and  thro'  the 

wind 
Pierced  ever  a  child's  cry;   and  crag 

and  tree 
Scaling,  Sir  Lancelot  from  the  perilous 

nest, 
This  ruby  necklace  thrice  around  her 

neck. 


And  all  unscarr'd  from  beak  or  talon 
brought 

A  maiden  babe ;  which  Arthur  pitying 
took. 

Then  gave  it  to  his  Queen  to  rear :  the 
Queen 

But  coldly  acquiescing,  in  her  white 
arms 

Received,  and  after  loved  it  tenderly. 

And  named  it  Nestling ;  so  forgot  her- 
self 

A  moment,  and  her  cares;  till  that 
young  life 

Being  smitten  in  mid-heaven  with  mor- 
tal cold 

Past  from  her;  and  in  time  the  car- 
canet 

Vext  her  with  plaintive  memories  of 
the  child  : 

So  she,  delivering  it  to  Arthur,  said, 

"  Take  thou  the  jewels  of  this  dead  in- 
nocence. 

And  make  them,  ati  thou  wilt,  a  tour- 
ney-prize." 

To  whom  the  King,  "  Peace  to  thine 

eagle-borne 
Dead   nestling,   and  this  honor  after 

death,  [I  muse 

Following  thy  will  1  but,  O  my  Queen, 
Why  ye  not  wear  on  arm,  or  neck,  or 

zone, 
Those  diamonds  that  I  rescued  from 

the  tarn, 
And  Lancelot  won,  methought,  for  thee 

to  wear." 


520 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT, 


"  Would  rather  ye  had  let  them  fall," 
she  cried, 

"  Plunge  and  be  lost — ill-fated  as  they 
were, 

A  bitterness  to  me  ! — ye  look  amazed. 

Not  knowing  they  were  lost  as  soon  as 
given — 

Slid  from  my  hands,  when  I  was  lean- 
ing out 

Above  the  river — that  unhappy  child 

Past  in  her  barge  ;  but  rosier  luck  will 
go 

With  these  rich  jewels,  seeing  that 
they  came 

Not  from  the  skeleton  of  a  brother- 
slayer, 

But  the  sweet  body  of  a  maiden  babe. 

Perchance — who  knows  ? — the  purest 
of  thy  knights 

May  win  them  for  the  purest  of  my 
maids." 

She  ended,  and  the    cry  of  a  great 

jousts 
With  trumpet-blowings  ran  on  all  the 

ways 
From    Camelot   in   among   the   faded 

fields 
To   furthest   towers ;   and  everywhere 

the  knights 
Arm'd   for  a  day  of  glory  before   the 

King. 

But  on  the  hither  side  of  that  loud 
morn 

Into  the  hall  stagger'd,  his  visage 
ribb'd 

From  ear  to  ear  with  dog-whip  weals, 
his  nose 

Bridge-broken,  one  eye  out,  and  one 
hand  off, 

And  one  with  shatter'd  fingers  dang- 
ling lame, 

A  churl,  to  whom  indignantly  the 
King, 

"Mv  churl,  for  whom  Christ  died, 
what  evil  beast 

Hath  drawn  his  claws  athwart  thy 
face  .?   or  fiend  ? 

Man  was  it  who  marr'd  Heaven's  im- 
age in  thee  thus  t " 


Then,  sputtering  thro'  the  hedge  o{ 

splinter' d  teeth, 
Yet  strangers  to  the  tongue,  and  with 

blunt  stump 
Pitch-blacken'd  sawing  the  air  said  the 

maim'd  churl, 

"  He  took  them  and  he  drave  them 

to  his  tower — 
Some  hold  he  was  a  table-knight  of 

thine — 
A    hundred    goodly    ones  —  the    Red 

Knight,  he — 
Lord,  I  was  tending  swine,  and  the  Red 

Knight 
Brake  in  upon  me  and  drave  them  to 

his  tower; 
And  when  I  called  upon  thy  name  as 

one 
That  does  right  by  gentle  and  by  churl, 
Maim'd  me  and  maul'd,  and  would  out- 
right have  slain. 
Save  that  he  sware  me  to  a  message, 

saying — 
'  Tell  thou  the  King  and  all  his  liars, 

that  I 
Have  founded  my  Round  Table  in  the 

North, 
And  whatsoever  his  own  knights  have 

sworn 
My  knights  have  sworn  the  counter  to 

it — and  say 
My  tower  is  full  of  harlots,  like  his 

court, 
But   mine   are   worthier,   seeing    they 

profess 
To   l3e  none  other  than  themselves — 

and  say 
My  knights  are  all  adulterers  like  his 

own, 
But  mine  are  truer,  seeing   they  pro- 
fess 
To  be  none  other ;  and  say  his  hour  is 

come. 
The  heathen  are  upon  him,  his  long 

lance 
Broken,  and  his  Excalibur  a  straw.'  " 

T!ien  Arthur  turn'd  to  Kay  the  sen- 
eschal, 
"Take  thou  my  churl,  and  tend  him 
curiously 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


521 


Like  a  king's  heir,  till  all  his  hurts  be 

whole. 
The  heathen — but   that  ever-climbing 

wave, 
Hurl'd  back  again  so  often  in  empty 

foam, 
Hath  lain  for  years  at  rest — and  rene- 
gades, 
Thieves,  bandits,  leavings  of  confusion, 

whom 
The   wholesome    realm   is   purged   of 

otherwhere, — 
Friends,  thro'  your  manhood  and  your 

fealty, — now 
Make  their  last  head  like  Satan  in  the 

North. 
My    younger    knights,    Yiew-made,    in 

whom  3'our  flower 
Waits  to  be  solid  fruit  of  golden  deeds. 
Move  with  me  toward  their  quelling, 

which  achieved. 
The  loneliest  ways  are  safe  from  shore 

to  shore. 
But  thou,  Sir  Lancelot,  sitting  in  my 

place 
Enchair'd     to-morrow,     arbitrate    tlie 

field: 
For  wherefore   shouldst  thou  care   to 

mingle  with  it. 
Only  to    yield    my   Queen    her    own 

again  ? 
Speak,  Lancelot,  thou  art  silent :  is  it 

well  ? " 

Thereto  Sir  Lancelot  answer'd,  **  It 

is  well : 
Yet  better  if  the  King  abide,  and  leave 
The  leading  of  his  younger  knights  to 

me. 
Else,  for  the  King  has  will'd  it,  it  is 

well." 

Then  Arthur  rose  and  Lancelot  fol- 

low'd  him. 
And   while    they    stood    without    the 

doors,  the  King 
Turn'd  to  him  saying,  "  Is  it  then  so 

well .? 
Or  mine  the  blame  that  oft  I  seem  as 

he 
Of  whom  was  written,  'a  sound  is  in 

his  ears ' — 


The  foot  that  loiters,  bidden  go, — the 
glance 

That  only  seems  half-loyal  to  com- 
mand,— 

A  manner  somewhat  fall'n  from  rev- 
erence — 

Or  have  I  dream'd  the  bearing  of  our 
knights 

Tells  of  a  manhood  ever  less  and 
lower .'' 

Or  whence  the  fear  lest  this  my  realm, 
uprear'd. 

By  noble  deeds  at  one  with  noble 
vows, 

From  flat  confusion  and  brute  vio- 
lences, 

Reel  back  into  the  beast,  and  be  no 
more  ? " 

He  spoke,  and  taking  all  his  younge; 

knights, 
Down  the  slope  city  rode,  and  sharply 

turn'd 
North  by  the  gate.    In  her  high  bowel 

the  Queen, 
Working    a    tapestry,    lifted    up    her 

head. 
Watched  her  lord  pass,  and  knew  not 

that  she  sigh'd. 
Then  ran  across  her  memory  the  strange 

rhyme 
Of  bygone  Merlin,  "  Where  is  he  who 

knows .'' 
From  the  great  deep  to  the  great  deep 

he  goes." 

But  when  the  morning  of  a  tourna- 
ment. 

By  these  in  earnest  those  in  mockery 
caU'd 

The  Tournament  of  the  Dead  Inno- 
cence, 

Brake  with  a  wet  wind  blowing.  Lance 
lot, 

Round  whose  sick  head  all  night,  likt 
birds  of  prey, 

The  words  of  Arthur  flying  shriek'd, 
arose. 

And  down  a  streetway  hung  with  folds 
of  pure 

White  samite,  and  by  fountains  running 
wine, 


522 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT 


Where  children  sat  in  white  with  cups 

of  gold, 
Moved   to  .the   lists,   and   there,  with 

slow  sad  steps 
Ascending,   fill'd   his   double-dragon'd 

chair. 

He  glanced  and  saw  the  stately  gal- 
leries, 

Dame,  damsel,  each  thro'  worship  of 
their  Queen 

White-robed  in  honor  of  the  stainless 
child, 

And  some  with  scatter'd  jewels,  like  a 
bank 

Of  maiden  snow  mingled  with  sparks 
of  fire. 

lie  lookt  but  once,  and  veil'd  his  eyes 
again. 

The  sudden  trumpet  sounded  as  in  a 
dream 

To  ears  but  half-awaked,  then  one  low 
roll 

Of  Autumn  thunder,  and  the  jousts  be- 
gan: 

And  ever  the  wind  blew,  and  yellowing 
leaf 

And  gloom  and  gleam,  and  shower  and 
shorn  plume 

Went  down  it.  Sighing  weariedly,  as 
one 

Who  sits  and  gazes  on  a  faded  fire, 

When  all  the  goodlier  guests  are  past 
away. 

Sat  their  great  umpire,  looking  o'er 
the  lists. 

He  saw  the  laws  that  ruled  the  tourna- 
ment 

Broken,  but  spake  not ;  once,  a  knight 
cast  down 

Before  his  throne  of  arbitration  cursed 

The  dead  babe  and  the  follies  of  the 
King; 

And  once  the  laces  of  a  helmet 
crack'd, 

And  show'd  him,  like  a  vermin  in  its 
hole, 

Modred,  a  narrow  face :  anon  he  heard 

The  voice  that  billow'd  round  the  bar- 
riers roar 


An    ocean-sounding   welcome    to   '■me 

knight, 
But  n^wly  enter'd,  taller  than  the  rest, 
And  armor'd  all  in  forest  green,  where- 
on 
There  tript  a  hundred  tiny  silver  deer, 
And  wearing  but  a  holly-spray  for  crest, 
With   ever-scattering   berries,  and   on 

shield 
A  spear,  a  harp,  a  bugle — Tristram — 

late 
From  overseas  in  Brittany  rcturn'd, 
And   marriage  with  a  princess  of   that 

realm, 
Isolt  the  White— Sir  Tristram  of  the 

Woods — 
Whom  Lancelot  knew,  had  held  some- 
time with  pain 
His  own  against  him,  and  now  yearn'd 

to  shake 
The  burthen  off  his  heart  in  one  full 

shock 
With   Tristram    cv'n   to    death  :    his 

strong  hands  gript 
And  dinted  the  gilt  dragons  right  nnd 

left. 
Until  he  groan'd   for  wrath— so  many 

of  those, 
That  ware  their  ladies'  colors  on  the 

casque, 
Drew  from  before  Sir  Tristram  to  the 

bounds, 
And   there  with  gibes  and  flickering 

mockeries 
Stood,    while   he    mutter'd,  "  Craven 

crests  !     O  shame  ! 
What  faith  have  these  in  whom  they 

sware  to  love .'' 
The  glory  of  our  Round  Table  is  no 

more." 

So  Tristram  won,  and  Lancelot  gave, 

the  gems, 
Not  speaking  other  word  than  "  Hast 

thou  won  ? 
Art  thou  the  purest,  brother  ?  See,  the 

hand 
Wherewith  thou  takest  is  red  ! "  to 

whom 
Tristram,  half   plagued  by  Lancelot** 

languorous  mood, 


THE  LAS7^  TOURNAMENT. 


52^ 


Made  answer,  "  Ay,  but  wlierefore  toss 

me  this 
Like  a  dry  bone  cast  to  some  hungry 

hound  ? 
Let     me    thy    fair    Queen's    fantasy. 

Strength  of  heart 
And  might  of  limb,  but  mainly  use  and 

skill,  [King. 

Are  winners  in  this  pastime  of  our 
My  hand — belike  the  lance  hath  dript 

upon  it —  V 

No  blood  of  mine,  I  trow  ;  but  O  chief 

knight, 
Right  arm  of  Arthur  in  the  battlefield, 
Great  brother,  thou   nor  I  have  made 

the  world ; 
Be   happy  in  thy  fair  Queen  as  I  in 

mine." 

And  Tristram  round  the  gallery 
made  his  horse 

Caracole  ;  then  bow'd  his  homage, 
bluntly  saying, 

*'  Fair  damsels,  each  to  him  who  wor- 
ships each 

Sole  Queen  of  Beauty  and  of  love,  be- 
hold 

This  day  my  Queen  of  Beauty  is  not 
here." 

Then  most  of  these  were  mute,  some 
anger'd,  one 

Murmuring,  "All  courtesy  is  dead," 
and  one, 

*'  The  glory  of  our  Round  Table  is  no 
more.' 

Then  fell  thick  rain,  plume  droopt 
and  mantle  clung,  [day 

And  pettish  cries  awoke,  and  the  wan 

Went  glooming  down  in  wet  and  weari- 
ness : 

But  under  her  black  brows  a  swarthy 
dame 

Laught  shrilly,  crying  "  Praise  the 
patient  saints, 

Our  one  white  day  of  Innocence  hath 
past, 

Tho'  somewhat  draggled  at  the  skirt. 
So  be  it. 

riie  snowdrop  only,  flow'ring  thro'  the 
year, 


"Would  make  the  world  as  blank  as 

wintertide. 
Come — let  us  comfort  the^r  sad  eyes, 

our  Queen's 
And  Lancelot's,at  this  night's  solemnity 
With   all    the  kindlier  colors  of  the 

field." 

So  dame  and  damsel  glitter'd  at  the 

feast 
Variously  gay :  for   he   that  tells  t"he 

tale 
Liken'd  them,  saying  "  as  when  an  hour 

of  cold 
Falls  on  the  mountain  in  midsummer 

snows, 
And  all  the  purple  slopes  of  mountain 

flowers 
Pass  under  white,  till  the  warm  hour 

returns 
With  veer  of  wind,  and  all  are  flowers 

again  ;  " 
So  dame  and  damsel  cast  the  simple 

white. 
And  glowing  in  all  colors,  :he  live  grass 
Rose-campion,  bluebell,kingcup,  poppy, 

glanced 
About  the  revels,  and  with  mirth  so 

loud 
Beyond   all  use,  that,  half-amazed,  the 

Queen, 
And  wroth  at  Tristram  and  the  lawless 

jousts, 
Brake  up  their  sports,  then  slowly  to 

her  bower 
Parted,  and  in  her  bosom  pain  was  lord. 

And  little  Dagonet  on  the  morrow 
morn. 

High  over  all  the  yellowing  Autumn- 
tide, 

Danced  like  a  wither'd  leaf  before  the 
hall. 

Then  Tristram  saving.  "  Why  skip  ytj 
so.  Sir  Fool  i'' 

Wheel'd  round  on  either  heel,  Dagonet 
replied, 

"  Belike  for  lack  of  wiser  company ; 

Or  being  fool,  and  seeing  too  much  wil 

Makes  the  world  rotten,  why,  belike  I 
skip 


524 


THE  LAST  7VUA'NAMENT. 


To   know  myself  the  wisest  knight  of 

all." 
"  Ay,   fool,"   said  Tristram    "  but  'tis 

eating  dry 
To  dance  without  a  catch,  a  roundelay 
To  dance   to."    Then   he  twangled  on 

his  harp, 
And  while  he  twangled   little  Dagonet 

stood. 
Quiet  as  any  water-sodden  log 
Stay'd  in  the  wandering  warble  of  a 

brook  ; 
But  when   the  twangling  ended,  skipt 

again  ; 
Then  being  ask'd,  "  Why  skipt  ye  not, 

Sir  Fool  ? " 
Made  answer, "  I    had    liefer    twenty 

years 
Skip  to  the  broken  music  of  my  brains 
Than  any  broken  music  ye  can  make." 
Then  Aristram,  waiting  for  the  quip  to 

come,  [fool } " 

"  Good  now,  what  music  have  I  broken, 
And  little  Dagonet,  skipping,  "Arthur, 

the  king's ; 
For  when  thou   playest  that   air   with 

Queen  Isolt, 
Thou  makest  broken   music  with   thy 

bride,  [tany — 

Her  daintier    namesake  down  in  Brit- 
And  so  thou  breakest  Arthur's   music 

too." 
"  Save  for  that  broken  music  in  thy 

brains. 
Sir   Fool,"    said  Aristram,    "  I  would 

break  thy  head. 
Fool,  I   came   late,  the   heathen   wars 

were  o'er. 
The  life  had  fiown,  we  sware  but  by  the 

shell— 
I  am  but  a  fool  to  reason  with  a  fool. 
Come,  thou  art  crabb'd  and  sour  :  but 

lean  me  down, 
Sir   Dagonet,  one   of  thy  long  asses' 

ears, 
And  hearken  if  my  music  be  not  true. 

"  *  Free  love — free  field — ^we  love  but 
while  we  may : 
The  woods  are  hush'd,  their  music  is 
no  more  : 


The   leaf   is  dead,  the   yearning  past 

away  : 
New  leaf,  new   life — the  days  of  frost 

are  o'er  : 
New  life,  new  love  to  suit  the  newer 

day  : 
New  loves  are  sweet  as  those  that  went 

before : 
Free   love, — free    field — we  love    but 

while  we  may.' 

"  Ye  might  have  moved  slow-meas- 
ure to  my  tune. 

Not  stood  stockstill.  I  made  it  in  the 
woods, 

And  found  it  ring  as  true  as  tested 
gold." 

But  Dagonet  with  one  foot  poised  in 

his  hand, 
"  Friend,  did  ye    mark  that    fountain 

yesterday 
Made  to  run  wine  } — but  this  had  run 

itself 
All  out  like  a  long  life  to  a  sour  end — 
And  them  that  round  it  sat  with  golden 

cups 
To    hand    the    wine    to  whomsoever 

came — 
The   twelve  small   damosels  white  as 

Innocence, 
In  honor  of  poor  Innocence  the  babe, 
Who  left  the  gems  which  Innocence 

the  Queen 
Lent  to  the    King,  and   Innocence  the 

King 
Gave   for  a  prize — and    one  of  those 

white  slips  [one, 

Handed  her  cup  and  piped,  the  pretty 
'Drink,   drink.  Sir   Fool,'   and  there- 
upon I  drank. 
Spat — pish — the    cup    was    gold,    the 

draught  was  mud." 

And  Tristram,  "  Was  it  muddier  than 

thy  gibes  ? 
Is  all  the  laughter  gone  dead  out  of 

thee  ?— 
Not  marking  how  the  knighthood  mock 

thee,  fool — 
*  Fear  God  :  honor   the  king — his  one 

true  knight — 


TF/E  LAST  TOURNAMENT, 


52$ 


Sole   follower  of  the  vows' — for  here 

be  they 
Who  knew  thee  swine  enow  before  I 

came, 
Smuttier  than  blasted  grain  :  but  when 

the  King 
Had  made  thee  fool,  thy  vanity  so  shot 

up 
It  frighted  all  free  fool  from  out  thy 

heart ; 
Which  left  thee  less  than  fool,  and  less 

than  swine, 
A  naked  aught — yet  swine  I  hold  thee 

still, 
For  I  have'  flung  thee  pearls,  and  find 

thee  swine." 


And  little  Dagonet  mincing  with  his 
feet, 
'  Knight,  an  ye  fling  those  rubies  round 

my  neck 
In   lieu   of   hers,  I  '11   hold  thou   hast 

some  touch 
Of  music,  since  I  care  not  for  thy  pearls. 
Swine  ?       I    have     wallow'd,    I    have 

wash'd — the  world 
Is  flesh  and  shadow — I  have  had  my 

day. 
The   dirty  nurse.    Experience,  in   her 
kind 
I    Hath  foul'd  me — an  I  wallow'd,  then  I 
I  wash'd — 

j    I   have   had    my  day  and  my  philoso- 
j  phies — 

And  thank  the  Lord   I  am  King  Ar- 
thur's fool.  ^ 
Swine,    say   ye  ?    swine,  goats,   asses, 

rams  and  geese 
Troop'd  round  a  Paynim   harper  once, 
who  thrumm'd 
j    On  such  a  wire  as  musically  as  thou 
I    Some  such  fine  song — but  never  a  king's 
(  fool." 


And  Tristram,  "  Then   were   swine, 
goats,  asses,  geese 
The  wiser  fools,  seeing  thy  Paynim  bard 
Had  such  a  mastery  of  his  mystery 
That  he  could  harp  his  wife  up  out  of 
Ile.l." 


The  Dagonet,  turning  on  the  ball  of 

his  foot, 
"And  whither  harp'st  thou  thine  ?  down ! 

and  thyself 
Down !  and  two  more  :  a  helpful  harper 

thou, 
That   harpest  downward  !     Dost  thou 

know  the  star 
We   call   the    harp   of   Arthur   up   in 

heaven  ?  " 

And    Tristram,  "  Ay,  Sir   Fool,   for 

when  our  King 
Was  victor  wellnigh  day  by  day,  the 

knights. 
Glorying   in    each  new  glory,  set  his 

name 
High  on  all    hills,  and  in  the  signs  of 

heaven." 

And   Dagonet  answer'd,   "  Ay,  and 

when  the  land 
Was  freed,  and  the  Queen  false,  ye  set 

yourself 
To  babble  about  him,  all  to  show  your 

wit — 
And  whether  he  were  king  by  courtesy, 
Or  king  by  right — and  so  went  harping 

down 
The  black   king's  highway,  got  so  far, 

and  grew 
So  witty,  that  ye  play'd  at  ducks  and 

drake 
With  Arthur's  vows  on  the  great  lake 

of  fire. 
Tuwhoo  !  do  ye  see  it  ?  do  ye  see  the 

star  ? " 
"  Nay,  fool,"  said  Tristram,  "  not  in 

open  day." 
And  Dagonet,  "  Nay,  nor  will :  I  see  it 

and  hear. 
It  makes  a  silent  music  up  in  heaven, 
And   I,    and   Arthur   and   the   angels 

hear, 
And   then  we   skip,"     "  Lo,  fool,"  he 

said,  "  ye  talk 
Fool's  treason  :  is  the  king  thy  brother 

fool  ? " 
Then  little  Dagonet   clapt  his   hands 

and  shrill'd, 
"  Ay,  ay,  my  brother  fool,  the  king  oi 

fools  1 


525 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


Conceits  himself  as  God  that  he  can 
make 

Figs  out  of  thistles,  silk  from  bristles, 
milk 

From  burning  spurge,  honey  from  hor- 
net-combs, 

if^nd  men  from  beasts. — Long  live  the 
king  of  fools  ! " 

And  down  the  city  Dagonet  danced 

away. 
But  thro'  the  slowly-mellowing  avenues 
And  solitary  passes  of  the  wood 
Rode  Tristram  toward  Lyonesse  and 

the  west. 
Before   him  fled  the  face    of  Queen 

Isolt 
With  ruby-circled  neck,  but  evermore 
Past,  as  a  rustle  or  twitter  in  the  wood 
Made   dull   his  inner,  keen  his   outer 

eye 
For    all    that    walk'd,   or    crept,    or 

perched,  or  flew. 
Anon  the  face,  as,  when  a  gust  hath 

blown, 
Unrufifiing  waters  re-collect  the  shape 
Of  one  that  in  them  sees  himself,  re- 

turn'd ; 
But  at  the  slot  or  fewmets  of  a  deer, 
Or  ev'n  a  fall'n  feather,  vanish'd  again. 

So  on  for  all  that  day  from  lawn  to 

lawn 
Thro'  many  a  league-long  bower  he 

rode.     At  length 
A    lodge     of     intertwisted    beechen- 

boughs 
Furze-cramm'd,  and  bracken -roof  t,  the 

which  himself 
Built  for  a  summer  day  with  Queen 

Isolt 
Against  a  shower,  dark  in  the  golden 

grove 
Appearing,   sent    his    fancy  back  to 

where 
She  lived   a  moon  in  that  low  lodge 

with  him : 
Till  Mark  her  lord  had  past,  the  Cor- 
nish king. 
With  six  or  seven,  when  Tristram  was 

away, 


And  snatch'd  her  thence ;  yet  dread- 
ing worse  than  shame 

Her  warrior  Tristram  spake  not  anj 
word, 

But  bode  his  hour,  devising  wretched' 
ness. 

And  now  that  desert  lodge  to  Tris- 
tram lookt 

So  sweet,  that,  halting,  in  he  past,  and 
sank 

Down  on  a  drift  of  foliage  random- 
blown  ; 

But  could  not  rest  for  musing  how  to 
smooth 

And  sleek  his  marriage  over  to  the 
Queen. 

Perchance  in  lone  Tintagil  far  from  all 

The  tonguesters  of  the  court  she  had 
not  heard. 

But  then  what  folly  had  sent  him  over- 
seas 

After  she  left  him  lonely  here  ?  a 
name  .-* 

Was  it  the  name  of  one  in  Brittany, 

Isolt,  the  daughter  of  the  King.? 
"  Isolt 

Of  the  white  hands  "  they  call'd  her  : 
the  sweet  name 

Allured  him  first,  and  then  the  maid 
herself. 

Who  served  him  well  with  those  white 
hands  of  hers, 

And  loved  him  well,  until  himself  had 
thought 

He  loved  her  also,  wedded  easily, 

But  left  her  all  as  easily,  and  return'd. 

The  black-blue  Irish  hair  and  Irish 
eyes 

Had  drawn  him  home — what  marvel  } 
then  he  laid 

His  brows  upon  the  drifted  leaf  and 
dream'd. 

He   seem'd  to  pace  the   strand  of 

Brittany 
Between  Isolt  of  Britain  and  his  bride, 
And  show'd  them  both  the  ruby-chain, 

and  both 
Began  to  struggle  for  it,  till  his  Queen 
Graspt  it  so  hard,  that  all  her  hand 

was  red. 


THE  LAST  TOUKiVAMENT. 


527 


Then  cried  the   Breton,  "  Look,   her 

hand  is  red ! 
These  be   no    rubies,   this    is  frozen 

blood, 
And  melts  within  her  hand — her  hand 

is  hot 
With  ill  desires,  but  this  I  gave  thee, 

look, 
Is  all  as  cool  and  white  as  an)r  flower." 
Follow'd  a  rush  of  eagle's  wings,  and 

then 
A  whimpering  of  the    spirit    of  the 

child, 
Because  the  twain  had  spoil' d  her  car- 

canet. 

He    dream'd ;    but   Arthur  with  a 

hundred  spears 
Rode  far,  till  o'er  the  illimitable  reed, 
And  many  a  glancing  plash  and  sal- 

lowy  isle, 
The  wide-wing'd  sunset  of  the  misty 

marsh 
Glared  on  a  huge  machicolated  tower 
That  stood  with  open  doors,  whereout 

was  roll'd 
A  roar  of  riot,  as  from  men  secure 
Amid  their  marshes,  ruffians  at  their 

ease 
Among    their    harlot-brides,   an    evil 

song. 
"  Lo  there,"  said  one  of  Arthur's  youth, 

for  there, 
High  on  a  grim  dead  tree  before  the 

tower, 
A  goodly  brother  of  The  Table  Round 
Swung   by   the    neck  :    and    on    the 

boughs  a  shield 
Showing  a  shower  of  blood  in  a  field 

noir. 
And  therebeside  a  horn,  inflamed  the 

knights 
At  that  dishonor  done  the  gilded  spur, 
Till  each  would  clash  the  shield,  and 

blow  the  horn. 
But  Arthur  waved  them  back :  alone 

he  rode 
Then   at   the   dry   harsh   roar   of   the 

great  horn 
That  sent  the  face   of  all  the  marsh 

aloft 


An    ever    upward-rushing   storm  and 

cloud 
Of  shriek  and  plume,  the  Red  Knight 

heard,  and  all, 
Even   to  tipmost  lance  and  topmost 

helm. 
In  blood-red  armor  sallying,  howl'd  to 

the  King, 

"The  teeth   of  Hell  flay  bare   and 

gnash  thee  flat ! — 
Lo !  art  thou  not  that  eunuch-hearted 

King 
Who  fain  had  dipt  free  manhood  from 

the  world — 
The  woman-worshipper?     Yea,  God's 

curse,  and  I  ! 
Slain  was  the  brother  of  my  paramour 
By  a.  knight  of  thine,  and  I  that  heard 

her  whine 
And  snivel,  being  eunuch-hearted  too, 
Sware  by  the  scorpion-worm  that  twists 

in  hell, 
And  stings  itself  to  everlasting  death, 
To   hang  whatever  knight  of  thine  I 

fought 
And  tumbled.     Art  thou  King  } — Look 

to  thy  life  !  " 

He  ended  :  Arthur  knew  the  voice  ; 

the  face 
Wellnigh  was  helmet-liidden,  and  the 

name 
Went  wandering  somewhere  darkling 

in  his  mind. 
And  Arthur  deign' d  not  use  of  word  or 

sword, 
But  let  the  drunkard,  as  he  stretch'd 

from  horse 
To  strike  him,  overbalancing  his  bulk, 
Down  from  the  causeway  heavily  to  the 

swamp 
Fall,  as  the  crest  of  some  slow-arching 

wave 
Heard  in  dead  night  along  that  table- 

shore 
Drops  flat,  and  after  the  great  waters 

break 
Whitening  for  half  a  league,  and  thin 

themselves 
Far  over  sands  marbled  with  moon 

and  cloud, 


52S 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT 


From  less  and  less  to  nothing ;  thus  he 
fell 

Head-heavy,  while  the  knights,  who 
watch'd  him,  roar'd 

And  shouted  and  leapt  down  upon  the 
fall'n  ; 

There  trampled  out  his  face  from  be- 
ing known, 

And  sank  his  head  in  mire,  and  slimed 
themselves : 

Nor  heard  the  King  for  their  own  cries, 
but  sprang 

Thro'  open  doors,  and  swording  right 
and  left 

Men,  women,  on  their  sodden  faces, 
hurl'd 

The  tables  over  and  the  wines,  and 
slew 

Till  all  the  rafters  rang  with  woman- 
yells, 

And  all  the  pavement  stream'd  with 
massacre : 

Then,  yell  with  yell  echoing,  they  fired 
the  tower, 

Which  half  that  autumn  night,  like  the 
live  North, 

Red-pulsing  up  thro'  Alioth  and  Alcor, 

Made  all  above  it,  and  a  hundred 
meres 

About  it,  as  the  water  Moab  saw 

Come  round  by  the  East,  and  out  be- 
yond them  flush'd 

The  long  low  dune,  and  lazy-plunging 
sea. 

So  all  the  ways  were  safe  from  shore 
to  shore. 
But  in  the  heart  of  Arthur  pain  was 
lord. 

Then   out  of  Tristram  waking  the 

red  dream 
Fled  with  a  shout,  and  that  low  lodge 

return'd. 
Mid-forest,  and  the  wind  among  the 

boughs. 
He  whistled  his  good  warhorse  left  to 

graze 
Among  the  forest  greens,  vaulted  upon 

him, 
And  rode  beneath  an  ever-showering 

leaf, 


Till  one  lone  woman,  weeping  near  k 

cross, 
Stay'd  him,  "  Why  weep  ye  ?  "  ''•  Lord," 

she  said,  "  my  man 
Hath  left  me  or  is  dead  ;  "  whereon  he 

thought — 
**  What  an  she  hate  me  now }  I  would 

not  this. 
What  an  she  love  me  still .?    I  would 

not  that. 
I  know  not  what  I  would  " — but  said 

to  her, — 
"  Yet  weep  not  thou,  lest,  if  thy  mate 

return, 
He  find  thy  favor  changed  and  love 

thee  not" — 
Then  pressing  day  by  day  thro'  Lyon- 

esse 
Last  in  a  rocky  hollow,  belling,  heard 
The   hounds  of    Mark,   and  felt   the 

goodly  hounds 
Yelp  at  his  heart,  but,  turning,  pa^ 

and  gain'd 
Tintagil,  half  in  sea,  and  high  on  land, 
A  crown  of  towers. 

Down  in  a  casement  sat, 

A  low  sea-sunset  glorying  round  her 
hair 

And  glossy-throated  grace,  Isolt  the 
Queen. 

And  when  she  heard  the  feet  of  Tris- 
tram grind 

The  spiring  stone  that  scaled  about 
her  tower, 

Flush'd,  started,  met  him  at  the  doors, 
and  there 

Belted  his  body  with  her  white  em- 
brace. 

Crying  aloud,  "  Not  Mark — not  Mark, 
my  soikl !  |  he  : 

The  footstep  flutter'd  me  at  first :  not 

Catlike  thro'  his  own  castle  steals  my 
Mark, 

But  warrior-wise  thou  stridest  through 
his  halls 

Who  hates  thee,  as  I  him — ev'n  to  the 
death. 

My  soul,  I  felt  my  hatred  for  my  Mark 

Quicken  within  me,  and  knew  that  thog 
wert  nigh." 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


529 


To  whom  Sir  Tristram  smiling,  "  I  am 

here. 
Let  be  thy  Mark,   seeing   he   is   not 

thine." 

And  drawing    somewhat  backward 

she  replied, 
*'  Can  he  be  wrong'd  who  is  not  ev'n 

his  own, 
But  save  for  dread  of  thee  had  beaten 

me, 
Scratch'd,  bitten,  blinded,  marr'd  me 

somehow — Mark  ? 
What   rights   are    his   that   dare   not 

strike  for  them  ? 
Not  lift  a  hand — not,  tho'  he  found  me 

thus! 
But  hearken,  have  ye  met  him  ?  hence 

he  went 
To-day  for  three  days'  hunting — as  he 

said — 
And  so  returns  belike  within  an  hour. 
Mark's   way,    my   soul ! — but   eat   not 

thou  with  him, 
Because  he  hates  thee  even  more  than 

,    fears  ; 
Nor  drink:  and  when  thou  passest  any 

wood 
Close   visor,   lest  an   arrow  from   the 

bush 
Should  leave  me  all   alone  with  Mark 

and  hell. 
My  God,  the  measure  of  my  hate  for 

Mark 
Is  as  the  measure  of  my  love  for  thee." 

So,  pluck'd  one  way  by  hate  and  one 

by  love, 
Drain'd  of  her  force,  again  she  sat,  and 

spake 
To   Tristram,  as  he   knelt  before  her, 

saying, 
"  O  hunter,  and  O  blower  of  the  horn, 
Harper,  and  thou  hast   been  a  rover 

too. 
For,  ere  I  mated  with  my  shambling 

king. 
Ye  twain  had  fallen  out  about  the  bride 
Of  one — his  name  is  out  of  me — the 

prize. 
If  prize  she  were — (what  marvel — she 

could  see) — - 


Thine,     friend :    and    ever    since    my 

craven,  seeks 
To  wreck  thee  villanously  :  but,  O  Sir 

Knight, 
What  dame  or  damsel  have  ye  kneeled 

to  last .? " 

And  Tristram,  '•  Last  to  my  Queen 

Paramount, 
Here  now  to  my  Queen  Paramount  of 

love. 
And  loveliness,  ay,  lovelier  than  when 

first 
Her    light    feet    fell     on    our   rough 

Lyonesse, 
Sailing  from  Ireland." 

Softly  laugh'd  Isol^ 
"  Flatter  me  not,  for  hath  not  our  great 

Queen 
My  dole  of  beauty  trebled  "i "  and  he 

said, 
"  Her  beauty  is  her  beauty,  and  thine 

thine,  [kind — 

And  thine  is  more  to  me — soft,  gracious, 
Save  when  thy  Mark  is  kindled  on  thy 

lips 
Most  gracious ;  but  she,  haughty,  ev'n 

to  him, 
Lancelot ;    for  I  have  seen  him  wan 

enow 
To  make  one   doubt  if  ever  the  great 

Queen 
Have  yielded  him  her  love." 

To  whom  Isolt, 

"Ah  then,  false  hunter  and  false  har- 
per, thou 

Who  breakest  thro'  the  scruple  of  my 
bond. 

Calling  me  thy  white  hind,  and  saying 
to  me 

That  Guinevere  had  sinned  against  the 
highest. 

And  I — misyoked  with  such  a  want  of 
man — 

That  I  could  hardly  sin  against  the 
lowest." 

He  answer' d,  "O  my  soul,  be  com- 
forted ! 
If   this  be   sweet,    to    sin   in   leading- 
strings, 


53^ 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


If  here  be  comfort,  and  if  ours  be  sin, 

Crown'd  warrant  had  we  for  the  crown- 
ing sin 

That  made  us  happy;  but  how  ye 
greet  me — fear 

And  fault  and  doubt-— no  word  of  that 
fond  tale — 

Thy  deep  heart-yearnings,  thy  sweet 
memories 

Of  Tristram  in  that  year  he  was  away." 

And,  saddening  on  the  sudden,  spake 

Isolt, 
"  I  had  forgotten  all  in  my  strong  joy 
To  see   thee  —  yearnings  ? — ay!   for, 

hour  by  hour, 
Here  in  the  never-ended  afternoon, 
O  sweeter  than  all  memories  of  thee. 
Deeper  than  any  yearnings  after  thee 
Seem'd    those    far-rolling,    westward- 
smiling  seas. 
Watched  from  this  tower.      Isolt  of 

Britain  dash'd 
Before  Isolt  of  Brittany  on  the  strand. 
Would  that  have  chill'd  her  bride-kiss  ? 

Wedded  her  ? 
Fought  in  her  father's  battles  ?  wounded 

there  ? 
The  King  was  all  fulfill'd  with  grate- 
fulness. 
And  she,  my  namesake  of  the  hands, 

that  heal'd 
Thy  hurt  and  heart  with  unguent  and 

caress — 
Well — can  I  wish  her  any  huger  wrong 
Than  having  known  thee  ?  her  too  hast 

thou  left 
To  pine   and  waste    in    those  sweet 

memories  ? 
O  were  I  not  my  Mark's,  by  whom  all 

men 
Are  noble,   I  should  hate  thee  more 

than  love." 

And    Tristram,  fondling  ^  her    light 

hands,  replied, 
"  Grace,  Queen,  for  being  loved :  she 

loved  me  well. 
Did  I  love   her  ?   the  name  at  least  I 

loved. 
Isolt  ? — I  fought  his  battles,  for  Isolt ! 


The  night  was  dark  ;  the  true  star  set 
Isolt ! 

The  name  was  ruler  of  the  dark 

Isolt  > 

Care  not  for  her  I  patient,  and  prayer- 
ful, meek, 

Pale-blooded,  she  will  yield  herself  to 
God." 

And  Isolt  answered,  "  Yea,  and  why 

not  I .? 
Mine  is  the  larger  need,  who  am  not 

meek. 
Pale-blooded,  prayerful.     Let  me  tell 

thee  now. 
Here  one  black,  mute  midsummer  night 

I  sat 
Lonely,  but  musing  on  thee,  wondering 

where, 
Murmuring  a  light  song  I  had  heard 

thee  smg. 
And  once   or  twice  I  spake  thy  name 

aloud. 
Then  flash'd  a  levin-brand;  and  near 

me  stood, 
In  fuming  sulphur  blue  and  green, 'a 

fiend — 
Mark's  way  to  steal  behind  one  in  the 

dark — 
For  there  was  Mark  :  '  He  has  wedded 

her,'  he  said. 
Not  said,  but  hiss'd  it :  then  this  crown 

of  towers 
So  shook  to  such  a  roar  of  all  the  sky, 
That  here  in    utter    dark  I  swoon'd 

away, 
And  woke  again  in  utter  dark,  and 

cried, 
'  I  will  flee  hence  and  give  myself  to 

God'— 
And  thou  wert  lying  in  thy  new  leman's 

arms.*' 

Then  Tristram,  ever  dallying  with 
her  hand, 
"  May  God  be  with  thee,  sweet,  when 
old  and  gray. 
And   past    desire!"     a    saying    that 
anger'd  her. 
"  '  May  God  be  v/ith  thee,  sweet,  when 
thou  art  old. 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


531 


And  sweet  no  more  to  me  ! '  I  need  Him 

now. 
For  when  had  Lancelot  utter'd  aught 

so  gross 
Ev'n  to  the  swineherd's  malkin  in  the 

mast  ? 
The  greater  man,  ihe  greater  courtesy. 
But  thou,  thro'  ever  harrying  thy  wild 

beasts — 
Save  that  to  touch  a  harp,  tilt  with  a 

lance 
Becomes  thee  well — art    grown    wild 

beast  thyself.  [even 

How  darest  thou,  if  lover,  push  me 
In  fancy  from  thy  side,  and  set  me  far 
In  the  gray  distance,  half  a  life  away, 
Her  to  be   loved  no  more  ?    Unsay  it, 

unswear ! 
Flatter  me  rather,  seeing  me  so  weak. 
Broken  with  Mark  and  hate  and  soli- 
tude, 
Thy  marriage  and  mine  own,  that  I 

should  suck 
Lies  like  sweet  wines :  lie  to  me :  I 

believe. 
Will  ye  not  lie  ?  not  swear,  as  there  ye 

kneel. 
And  solemnly  as  when  ye  sware  to  him, 
The  man  of  men,  our  King — My  God, 

the  power 
Was  once  in  vows  when  men  believed 

the  King ! 
They  lied  not  then,   who  sware,  and 

thro'  their  vows 
The  King  prevailing  made  his  realm  : 

— I  say. 
Swear  to  me  thou  wilt  love  me  ev'n 

when  old. 
Gray-haired,  and  past  desire,  and  in  de- 
spair." 

Then    Tristram,  pacing  moodily  up 

and  down, 
**  Vows  !  did  ye  keep  the  vow  ye  made 

to  Mark 
More  than  I  mine  ?  Lied,  say  ye  ?  Nay, 

but  learnt, 
The  vow  that  binds  too  strictly  snaps 

itself— 
My    knighthood   taught    mo  this — ay, 

being  snapt — 


We  run  more  counter  to  the  soul  thereof 

Than  had  we  never  sworn.  I  swear  no 
more. 

I  swore  to  the  great  King,  and  am  for- 
sworn. 

For  once — ev'n  to  the  height — I  honor'd 
him. 

'  Man,  is  he  man  at  all  ? '  methought, 
when  first 

I  rode  from  our  rough  Lyonesse,  and 
beheld 

That  victor  of  the  Pagan  throned  in 
hall— 

His  hair,  a  sun  that  ray'd  from  off  a 
brow 

Like  hillsnow  high  in  heaven,  the  steel- 
blue  eyes. 

The  golden  beard  that  clothed  his  lips 
with  light — 

Moreover,  that  weird  legend  of  hi3 
birth, 

With  Merlin's  mystic  babble  about  his 
end. 

Amazed  me ;  then,  his  foot  was  on  a 
stool 

Shaped  as  a  dragon ;  he  seem'd  to  me 
no  man, 

But  Michael  trampling  Satan;  so  I 
sware. 

Being  amazed  i  but  this  went  by — the 
vows ! 

O  ay — the  wholesome  madness  of  aa 
hour — 

They  served  their  use,  their  time ;  for 
every  knight 

Believed  himself  a  greater  than  him- 
self. 

And  every  follower  eyed  him  as  a  God  •, 

Till  he,  being  lifted  up  beyond  himself, 

Did  mightier  deeds  than  elsewise  ho 
had  done. 

And  so  the  realm  was  made  ;  but  then 
their  vows — 

First  mainly  thro'  that  sullying  of  our 
Queen — 

Began  to  gall  the  knighthood,  asking 
whence 

Had  Arthur  right  to  bind  them  to  him- 
self } 

Dropt  down  from  heaven  ?  wash'd  up 
from  out  the  deep  ? 


532 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


They  fail'd  to  trace  him  thro'  the  flesh 

and  blood 
Of  our  old   Kings:    whence  then?  a 

doubtful  lord 
To  bind  them  by  inviolable  vows, 
Which  flesh  and  blood  perforce  would 

violate :  [within 

For  feel  this  arm  of  mine — the  tide 
Red  with  free  chase  and  heather- 
scented  air,  [pure 
Pulsing  full  man  ;  can  Arthur  make  me 
As  any  maiden  child?    lock  up    my 

tongue 
From  uttering  freely  what  I  freely  hear  ? 
Bind   me   to   one  ?     The   great    world 

laughs  at  it. 
And  worldling  of  the  world  am  I,  and 

know 
The   ptarmigan  that  whitens  ere  his 

hour 
Wooes  his  own  end ;   we  are  not  angels 

here 
Nor  shall  be  :  vows — I  am  woodman  of 

the  woods. 
And  hear  the  garnet-headed  yaffingale 
Mock   them  :     my   soul,   we   love  but 

while  we  may; 
And  therefore  is  my  love  so  large  for 

thee, 
Seeing  it  is  not  bounded  save  by  love." 

Here  ending,  he  moved  toward  her, 

and  she  said, 
"  Good :  an  I  turn'd  away  my  love  for 

thee 
To  some  one  thrice  as  courteous  as 

thyself— 
For  courtesy  wins  woman  all  as  well 
As  valor  may — but  he  that  closes  both 
Is  perfect,   he  is  Lancelot — taller  in- 
deed, 
Rosier,  and  comelier,  thou — but  say  I 

loved 
This  knightliest  of  all  knights,  and  cast 

thee  back 
Thine  own  small  saw,  *We  love  but 

while  we  may,' 
Well  then,  what  answer  ?  " 

He  that  while  she  spake. 
Mindful  of  what  he  brought  to  adorn 
her  with, 


The  jewels,  had  let  one  finger  lighth 

touch 
The  warm  white  apple  of  her  throat 

replied, 
"  Press  this  a  little  closer,  .sweet,  u-n- 

til- 
Come,  I  am  hunger'd  and  half-anger'd 

— meat. 
Wine,  wine — and   I  will  love  thee    to 

the  death. 
And  out  beyond  into  the   dream   to 

come." 

So  then,  when  both  were  brought  to 

full  accord, 
She  rose,  and  set  before  him  all  he 

will'd ; 
And   after  these   had    comforted  the 

blood 
With  meats   and  wines,  and  satiated 

their  hearts — 
Now  talking  of  their  woodland  para- 
dise. 
The    deer,    the    dews,   the    fern,   the 

founts,  the  lawns ; 
Now  mocking  at  the   much  ungainli- 

ness. 
And  craven  shifts,  and  long  crane  legs 

of  Mark — 
Then   Tristram  laughing    caught   the 

harp,  and  sang : 

"  Ay,  ay,  O  ay — the  winds  that  bend 

the  brier  1 
A   star   in   heaven,  a   star   within  the 

mere  ! 
Ay,  ay,  O  ay — a  star  was  my  desire, 
And   one  was  far  apart,  and  one  was 

near: 
Ay,  ay,  O  ay — the  winds  that  bow  the 

grass  ! 
And  one  was  water  and  one  star  was 

fire, 
And  one  will  ever  shine  and  one  will 

pass. 
Ay,  ay,  O  ay — the  winds  that  move  the 

mere." 

Then    in   the    light's  last    glimmer 
Tristram  show'd 
And   swung  the   ruby  carcanet.     She 
cried, 


TO  THE  QUEEN. 


533 


•'  The  collar  of  some  order,  which  our 

King 
Hath  newly  founded,  all  for  thee,  my 

soul, 
For  thee,  to  yield  thee  grace  beyond 

thy  peers." 

"  Not  so,  my  Queen,"  he  said,  "but 
the  red  fruit 

Grown  on  a  magic  oak-tree  in  mid- 
heaven, 

And  won  by  Tristram  as  a  tourney- 
prize, 

And  hither  brought  by  Tristram  for 
his  last 

Love-offering  and  peace-offering  unto 
thee." 

lie    rose,  he    turn'd,    and    flinging 

round  her  neck, 
Claspt  it    but  while  ne  bow'd  himself 

to  lay 
Warm    kisses  in   the  hollow  of  her 

throat, 


Out  of  the  dark,  just  as  the  lips  had 

touch'd, 
Behind    him    rose    a  shadow    and  a 

shriek — 
"  Mark's  wav,"  said  Mark,  and  clove 

him  thro'  the  brain. 

That  night  came  Arthur  home,  and 

while  he  climb'd, 
All  in  a  death-dumb  autumn-dripping 

gloom. 
The  stairway  to  the  hall,  and  look'd 

and  saw 
The  great  Queen's  bower  was  dark, — 

about  his  feet 
A  voice  clung  sobbing  till  he  question'd 

it, 
**  What    art    thou  ? "    and    the  voice 

about  his  feet 
Sent  up  an   answer,  sobbing,  **I  am 

thy  fool. 
And  I  shall  never  make  thee  smile 

again."    ' 


TO  THE  QUEEN. 


EPILOGUE  TO  THE  IDYLS. 


O  LOYAL  to  the  royal  in  thyself, 
And  loyal  to  thy  land,  as  this  to  thee — 
Bear  witness,  that  rememberable  day. 
When,  pale  as  yet,  and  fever-worn,  the 

Prince, 
Who  scarce  had  pluck'd  his  flickering 

life  again 
From  half-way  down  the  shadow  of  the 

grave, 
Past  with  thee   thro'  thy  people  and 

their  love, 
And   London  roll'd   one  tide   of  joy 

thro'  all 
Her  trebled  millions,  and  loud  leagues 

of  man 
And  welcome !  witness,  too,  the  silent 

cry, 


The  prayer  of  many  a  race  and  creed, 

and  clime —  [sea 

Thunderless  lightnings  striking  under 
From  sunset  and  sunrise  of  all  thy 

realm, 
And  that  true  North,  whereof  we  lately 

heard 
A   strain  to  shame   us   "  keep  you  to 

yourselves; 
So  loyal  is  too  costly!  friends — your 

love 
Is  but  a  burden :  loose  the  bond,  and 

go." 
Is   this  the  tone  of  empire.^  here  the 

faith 
That  made  us  rulers  ?  this,  indeed,  hei 

voice 


534 


TO  THE  QUEEN. 


And  meaning,  whom  the  roar  of  Hou- 

goumont 
Left  mightiest  of    all   peoples  under 

heaven  ? 
What  shock  has  fool'd  her  since,  that 

she  should  speak 
So  feebly  ?  wealthier — wealthier — hour 

by  hour ! 
The   voice    of    Britain,   or  a  sinking 

land, 
Some  third-rate  isle   half-lost,  among 

her  seas  ? 
There  rang  her  voice,  when  the  full  city 

peal'd 
Thee   and  thy  Prince  !    The  loyal  to 

their  crown 
Are   loyal  to  their  own  far  sons,  who 

love 
Our  ocean-empire  with  her  boundless 

homes  ' 
For  ever-broadening  England,  and  her 

throne 
In  our  vast  Orient,  and  one  isle,  one 

isle, 
That  knows  not  her  own  greatness :  if 

she  knows 
And  dreads  it  we   are  fall'n. But 

thou,  my  Queen, 
Not  for  itself,  but  thro'  thy  living  love 
For  one  to  whom  I  made  it  o'er  his 

grave 
Sacred,  accept  this  old  imperfect  tale. 
New-old,  and  shadowing  Sense  at  war 

with  Soul 
Rather    than  that  gray  king,  whose 

name,  a  ghost 
Streams  like  a  cloud,  man-shaped,  from 

mountain  peak, 
And   cleaves   to  cairn  and  cromlech 

still  for  him 
Of  Geoffrey's  book,  or  him  of  Mal- 

lor's  one 
Touched  by  the  adulteroi*  finger  of  a 

time 


That  hover'd  between  war  and  wan. 

tonness, 
And   crownings    and  dethronements ; 

take  withal 
Thy  poet's  blessing,  and  his  trust  that 

Heaven 
Will  blow  the  tempest  in  the  distance 

back 
From  thine  and   ours  :  for  some   are 

scared,  who  mark, 
Or  wisely  or  unwisely,  signs  of  storm. 
Waverings  of  every  vane  with  every 

wind, 
And  wordy  trucklings  in  the  transient 

hour, 
And  fierce  or  careless  looseners  of  the 

faith, 
And  Softness  breeding  scorn  of  simple 

life. 
Or  Cowardice,  the   child   of  lust  for 

gold. 
Or  Labor,  with   a     groan   and   not  a 

voice, 
Or  Art,  with  poisonous    honey  stol'n 

from  France, 
And  that  which  knows,  but  careful  for 

itself. 
And  that  which  knows  not,  ruling  that 

which  knows 
To  its  own   harm  :  the   goal   of  this 

great  world 
Lies  beyond  sight :  yet— if  our  slowly- 
grown 
And  crown'd  Republic's  crowning  com- 
mon-sense. 
That  saved  her  many  times,  not  fail — 

their  fears 
Are  morning  shadows  huger  than  the 

shapes 
That  cast  them,   not  those  gloomier 

which  forego 
The   darkness   of    that    battle  in  the 

West, 
Where  all  of  high  and  holy  dies  away. 


A   WELCOME. 


535 


A   WELCOME    TO    THE    DUKE   AND    DUCHESS 
OF   EDINBURGH. 

March,  1874. 


The  Son  of  him  with  whom  we  strove 
for  power — 
Whose  will  is  lord  thro'  all  his  world- 
domain — 
Who  made  the  serf  a  man,  and  burst 
his  chain — 
Has  given  our  Prince  his  own  Imperial 
Flower, 

Alexandrovna. 
And     welcome,      E.ussian     flower,    a 
people's  pride, 
To  Britain,  when  her  flowers  l)egin  to 

blow  ! 
From   love   to   love,  from   home   to 
home  you  go. 
From    mother    unto     mother,    stately 
bride, 

Marie- Alexandrovna. 


The  golden  news  along  the  steppes  is 
blown, 
And  at  thy  name  the  Tartar  tents 

are  stirred  : 
Elburz   and  all  the  Caucasus  have 
heard ; 
And    all    the   sultry   palms    of    India 
known, 

Alexandrovna. 
The  voices  of  our  universal  sea. 

On   capes   of   Afric   as   on   cliffs  of 

Kent, 
The  Maoris  and  that  Isle  of  Con- 
tinent, 
Ind  loyal   pines   of   Canada  murmur 
thee, 

Marie-Alexandrovna  ! 
11:. 
fair   empires  branching,  both,  in  lusty 
life  !— 


Yet   Harold's  England  fell  to  Nor- 
man swords :  . 
Yet  thine   own  land  has  bow'd  to 
Tartar  hordes 
Since  English  Harold  gave  its  throne 
a  wife, 

Alexandrovna ! 
For  thrones  and  peoples  are  as  waifs 
that  swing,  * 

And  float  or  fall,  in  endless  ebb  and 

flow; 
But  who  lo-^e  best  have  best  the 
grace  to  know 
That  Love  by  right  divine  is  deathless 
king, 

Marie-Alexandrovna  i 

IV. 

And  Love  has  led  thee  to  the  stranger 
land. 
Where  men  are  bold  and  strongly 

say  their  say  ; — 
See,  empire  upon  empire  smiles  to- 
day. 
As  thou  with  thy  young  lover  hand  in 
hand, 

Alexandrovna! 
So  now  thy  fuller  life  is  in  the  West, 
Whose  hand  at  home  was  gracious 

to  thy  poor : 
Thy  name  was  blest  within  the  nar- 
row door ; 
Here  also,  Marie,  shall  thy  name  be 
blest, 

Marie-Alexandrovna  I 


Shall  fears  and  jealous  hatreds  flame 
again  ? 
Or   at  thy  coming,  Princess,  every- 
where, 


53^ 


THE  VOICE  AND  THE  PEAK. 


The  blue    heaven  break,  and    some 
diviner  air 
Breathe    thro'  the  world   and   change 
the  hearts  of  men, 

Alexandrovna  ? 
But  hearts  that  change  not,  love  that 
cannot  cease, 


And  peace  be  yours,  the  peace   oi 

soul  in  soul ! 
And  howsoever  this  wild  world  may 
roll. 
Between  your  peoples  truth  and  mam 
ful  peace, 

Alfred— Alexandrovna  \ 


MISCELLANEOUS 


IN  THE  GARDEN    AT   SWAIN- 

STON. 

Nightingales  warbled  without. 
Within  was  weeping  for  thee  : 
Shadows  of  three  dead  men 
Walk'd  in  the  walks  with  me. 
Shadows  of  three  dead  men,  and  thou 
wast  one  of  the  three. 

Nightingales  sang  in  his  woods: 
The  Master  was  far  away : 
Nightingales  warbled  and  sang 
Of  a  passion  that  lasts  but  a  day : 
Still    in   the   house   in   his   coffin 
Prince  of  courtesy  lay. 

Two  dead  men  have  I  known 
In  courtesy  like  to  thee  : 
Two  dead  men  have  I  loved 
With  a  love  that  ever  will  be  : 
Three   dead  men  have   I   loved,  and 
thou  art  last  of  the  three. 


the 


THE  VOICE  AND  THE  PEAK. 

The  voice  and  the  Peak 
Far  over  summit  and  lawn. 
The  lone  glow  and  long  roar 
Green-rushing   from   the  rosy  thrones 
of  dawn ! 

All  night  have  I  heard  the  voice 
Rave  over  the  rocky  bar, 
But  thou  wert  silent  in  heaven. 
Above  thee  glided  the  star. 

Hast  thou  no  voice,  O  Peak, 
That  standest  high  above  all  ? 


"  I  am  the  voice  of  the  Peak, 
I  roar  and  rave  for  I  fall. 

*'  A  thousand  voices  go 
To  North,  South,  East,  and  West ; 
They  leave  the  heights  and  are  troubled, 
And  moan  and  sink  to  their  rest. 

"The  fields  are  fair  beside  them, 
The  chestnut  towers  in  his  bloom; 
But  they — they  feel  the  desire  of  the 
•      deep — 
Fall,  and  follow  their  doom. 

"  The  deep  has  power  on  the  height, 
And   the   height   has    power    on    the 

deep ; 
They  are  raised  forever  and  ever, 
And  sink  again  into  sleep." 

Not  raised  forever  and  ever, 
But  when  their  cycle  is  o'er, 
The   valley,  the   voice,  the   peak,  the 

star, 
Pass,  and  are  found  no  more. 

The  Peak  is  high  and  flush'd 

At  his  highest  with  sunrise  fire  ; 

The  Peak  is  high,  and  the  stars  are 

high, 
And  the  thought  of  a  man  is  higher. 

A  voice  below  the  voice. 
And  a  height  beyond  the  height ! 
Our  hearing  is  not  hearing, 
And  our  seeing  is  not  sight. 

The  voice  and  the  Peak 
Far  into  heaven  withdrawn, 
The  lone  glow  and  the  long  roar 
Green-rushing  from  the  rosy  thrones  c4 
dawn ! 


QUEEN    MARY 


DRAMATIS  PERSON.E. 

Queen  Mary. 

Philip  {King  of  Naples  and  Sicily,  afterwards  King  of  Spain), 

The  Princess  Elizabeth. 

Reginald  Pole  {Cardinal  and  Papal  Legate). 

Simon  Renard  {Spanish  Ambassador). 

Le  Sieur  de  Noailles  {French  Ambassador). 

Thomas  Cranmer  {Archbishop)  of  Canterbury). 

Sir  Nicholas  Heath  {Archbishop  of  York  ;  Lord  Chancellor  after  Gardine^ 

Edward  Courtenay  {Earl  of  Devon). 

Lord  William  \liovi^.v.'D  {afterwards  Lord  Howard  and  Lord  High  Admiral), 

Lord  Williams  of  Thame. 

Lord  Paget. 

Lord  Phtrh. 

Stephen  Gardiner  {Bishop  of  Winchester  and  Lord  Chancellor). 

Edmund  Bonner  {Bishop  of  London). 

Thomas  Thirlby  {Bishop  of  Ely). 

Sir  Thomas  Wyatt       I,,  ,.  t     j     \ 

Sir  1  homas  Stafford  I  ^Insurrectionary  Leaders), 

Sir  Ralph  Bagenhall. 

Sir  Robeht  Southwell. 

Sir  Henry  Bedingfield. 

Sir  William  Cecil 

Sir  Thomas  White  {Lord  Mayor  of  London). 

The  Duke  OF  Alva     |  /    ..      ,.  i^i.i-a\ 

The  Count  de  Feria  J  ^'^tt'^dtng  on  Lhihp). 

Peter  Martyr. 

Father  Cole. 

Father  Bourne.  -  . 

Villa  Garcia. 

Soto. 

Captain  Brett      \  i  a  ji         ,      /■  nr    ^a 

Antony  Knyvbtt)  (^'^^^'"^^  ^/  ^^>'««)- 

VuTKRS  {Gentleman  of  Lord  Howard).  » 

Roger  (^Servant  to  Noailles). 

Vln.iAhM  {Servant  to  IVyatt). 

Ste\vard  of  Household  io  the  Princess  Elizabeth. 

Old  Nokhs  and  ^okks. 

Marchioness  of  Exeter  {Mother  of  Courtenay). 

Lady  Clarence  \ 

Lady  Magdalen  Dacres  >  {Ladies  in  waiting  to  the  Queen), 

Alice  ) 

Maid  of  Honor  to  the  Princess  Elizabeth. 

1?B^  }  ^^"'^  Country  V/ives). 

Lords  and  other  Attendants,  Members  of  the  Privy  Council,  Members  of  Parliament ,  tw0 
Geuilemert,  A  Idertnen,  Citizens,  Peasants,  Ushers,  Messengers,  Guards,  Pa^es,  &*€. 

(537) 


ACT  I. 

SCENE    I.— ALDGATE    RICHLY 
DECORATED. 

Crowd.    Marshalmen. 

Marshalman.  Stand  back,  keep  a 
clear  lane.  When  will  her  Majesty 
pass,  sayst  thou  t  why  now,  even  now ; 
wherefore  draw  back  your  heads  and 
your  horns  before  I  break  them,  and 
make  what  noise  you  will  with  your 
tongues,  so  it  be  not  treason.  Long 
live  Queen  Mary,  the  lawful  and  legiti- 
mate daughter  of  Harry  the  Eighth. 
Shout,  knaves  ! 

Citizens.  Long  live  Queen  Mary  I 

First  Citizen.  That's  a  hard  word, 
legitimate  ;  what  does  it  mean  ? 

Second  Citizen.  It  means  a  bastard. 

Third  Citizen.  Nay,  it  means  true- 
born. 

First  Citizen.  Why,  clidn't  the  Par- 
liament make  her  a  bastard  ? 

Second  Citizen.  No  ;  it  was  the  Lady 
Elizabeth. 

Third  Citizen.  That  was  after,  man ; 
that  was  after. 

First  Citizen.  Then  which  is  the 
bastard  ? 

Second  Citizen.  Troth,  they  be  both 
Imstards  by  Act  of  Parliament  and 
Council. 

Third  Citizen.  Ay,  the  Parliament 
can  make  every  true-born  man  of  us  a 
bastard.  Old  Nokes,  can't  it  make 
thee  a  bastard?  thou  shouldst  know, 
for  thou  art  as  white  as  three  Christ- 
masses. 

Old  Nokes  {dreamily).  Who's  a-pass- 
ing  ?     King  Edward  or  King  Richard  } 

"Third  Citizen.  No,  old  Nokes. 

Old  Nokes.  It's  Harry ! 

jyiird  Citizen.  It's  Queen  Mary. 

Old  Nfokes.  The  blessed  Mary's  a- 
passing  !  [Falls  on  his  knees. 

A^okes.  Let  father  alone,  my  mas- 
ters !  he's  past  your  questioning. 

Third  Citizen.  Answer  thou  for  hin., 
then !  thou  art  no  such  cockerel  thy- 


self, for  thou  was  born  i'  the  tail  end  of 
old  Harry  the  Seventh. 

Nokes.  Eh  !  that  was  afore  bastard- 
making  began.  I  was  born  true  man 
at  five  in  the  forenoon  i'  the  tail  of  old 
Harry,  and  so  they  can't  make  me  a 
bastard. 

Third  Citizen.  But  if  Parliament 
can  make  the  Queen  a  bastard,  why,  it 
follows  all  the  more  that  they  can 
make  thee  one,  who  art  fray'd  i'  the 
knees,  and  out  at  elbow,  anci  bald  o' 
the  back,  and  bursten  at  the  toes,  and 
down  at  heels. 

Nokes.  I  was  born  of  a  true  man  and 
a  ring'd  wife,  and  I  can't  argue  upon 
it ;  but  I  and  my  old  woman  'ud  burn 
upon  it,  that  would  we. 

Marshalman.  What,  are  you  cack- 
ling of  bastardy  under  the  Queen's 
own  nose  ?  I'll  have  you  flogg'd  and 
burnt  too,  by  the  Rood  I  will. 

First  Citizen.  He  swears  by  the 
Rood.     Whew ! 

Second  Citizen.  Hark !  the  trumpets. 
[The  Procession  passes,  Mary  and 
Elizabeth  riding  side  by  side, 
and  disappears  U7tder  the  gate. 

Citizens.  Long  live  Queen  Mary ! 
down  with  all  traitors  !  God  save  Her 
Grace;  and  death  to  Northumber- 
land !  [Exeunt. 

Manent  two  Gentlemen. 

First  Gejttleman.  By  God's  light  a 
noble  creature,  right  royal. 

Second  Gentlematt.  She  looks  come- 
lier  than  ordinary  to-day ;  but  to  my 
mind  the  Lady  Elizabeth  is  th.e  more 
noble  and  royal. 

First  Gentleman.  I  mean  the  Lady 
Elizabeth.  Did  you  hear  (I  have  a 
daughter  in  her  service  who  reported 
it)  that  she  met  the  Queen  at  Wan. 
stead  with  five  hundred  horse,  and  the 
Queen  (tho'  some  say  they  be  much 
divided)  took  her  hand,  call'd  her 
sweet  sister,  and  kiss'd  not  her  alone, 
but  all  the  ladies  of  her  following. 

Second  Gentleman.  Ay,  that  was  in 


QUEEN  MARY. 


539 


her  hour  of  joy,  there  will  be  plenty 
to  sunder  and  unsister  them  again; 
this  Gardiner  for  one,  who  is  to  be 
made  Lord  Chancellor,  and  will  pounce 
like  a  wild  beast  out  of  his  cage  to 
worry  Cranmer. 

First  Gentleman.  And  furthermore, 
my  daughter  said  that  when  there  rose 
a  talk  of  the  late  rebellion,  she  spoke 
even  ef  Northumberland  pitifully,  and 
of  the  good  Lady  Jane  as  a  poor  inno- 
cent child  who  had  but  obeyed  her 
father  ;  and  furthermore,  she  said  that 
no  one  in  her  time  should  be  burnt  for 
heresy. 

Second  Gentleman.  Well,  sir,  I  look 
for  happy  times. 

First  Gentleman,  There  is  but  one 
thing  against  them.  I  know  not  if  you 
know. 

Second  Gentleman.  I  suppose  you 
touch  upon  the  rumor  that  Charles, 
the  master  of  the  world,  has  offcr'd  her 
his  son  Philip,  the  Pope  and  the  Devil. 
I  trust  it  is  but  a  rumor. 

First  Gentleman.  She  is  going  now 
to  the  Tower  to  loose  the  prisoners 
there,  and  among  them  Courtenay,  to 
be  made  Earl  of  Devon,  of  royal  blood, 
of  splendid  feature,  whom  the  coun- 
cil and  all  her  people  wish  her  to 
marry.  May  it  be  so,  for  we  are  many 
of  us  Catholics,  but  few  Papists,  and 
the  Hot  Gospellers  will  go  mad  upon 
it. 

Second  Gentleman.  Was  she  not  be- 
troth'd  in  her  babyhood  to  the  Great 
Emperor  himself  ? 

First  Gentleman.  Ay,  but  he's  too 
old. 

Second  Gentleman.  And  again  to  her 
cousin  Reginald  Pole,  now  Cardinal, 
but  I  hear  that  he  too  is  full  of  aches 
and  broken  before  his  day. 

First  Gentleman.  O,  the  Pope  could 
dispense  with  his  Cardinalate,  and  his 
achage  and  his  breakage,  if  that  were 
all  :  but  will  you  not  follow  the  pro- 
cession? 

Second  Gentleman.  No ;  I  have  seen 
enough  for  this  day. 


First  Gentleman.  Well,  I  shall  fol- 
low ;  if  I  can  get  near  enough  I  shall 
judge  with  my  own  eyes  whether  Her 
Grace  incline  to  this  splendid  scion  of 
Plantagenet.  {Exetint. 

SCENE   n.— A    ROOM    IN  LAM- 
BETH  PALACE. 

Cranmer.    To    Strasburg,    Antwerp, 
Frankfort,  Zurich,  Worms, 

Geneva,  Basle — our  Bishops  from  their 
sees 

Or  fled,  they  say,  or    flying — Poinet, 
Barlow, 

Bale,   Scory,   Coverdale;   besides   the 
Deans 

Of  Christchurch,  Durham,  Exeter,  and 
Wells— 

Ailmer  and  Bullingham,  and  hundreds 
more  ; 

So  they  report:  I  shall  be  left  alone  ; 

No  :  Hooper,  Ridley,  Latimer  will  not 
fly. 

Enter  Peter  Martyr. 
Peter  Martyr.    Fly,  Cranmer  !  were 
there  nothing  else,  your  name 

Stands  first  of   those  who  sign'd   the 
Letters  Patent 

That   gave   her   royal  crown  to  Lady 
Jane. 
ranmt 
was  written  last 

Those  that  are  now  her  Privy  Council, 
sign'd 

Before  me :  nay,  the  Judges  had  pro- 
nounced 

That    our   young   Edward   might   be- 
queath the  crown 

Of   England,   putting   bv   his   father's 
will. 

Yet  I  stood  out,  till  Edward  sent  for 
me. 

The  wan  boy-king,  with  his  fast-fading 
eyes 

Fixt   hard    on   mine,   his   frail    trans- 
parent hand. 

Damp   with   the   sweat  of  death,  and 
griping  mine, 

Whisper'd  me,  if  I  loved  him,  not  to 
yield 


540 


QUEEN  MARY. 


His  Church  of  England  to  the  Papal 

wolf 
And  Mary  ;    then  I  could  no  more — I 

sign'd. 
Nay,  for  bare  shame,  of  inconsistency, 
She  cannot  pass  her  traitor  council  by, 
To  make  me  headless. 
Peter  Martyr.   That  might  be  for- 
given. 
I  tell  you,  fly,  my  Lord.     You  do  not 

own 
The  bodily  presence  in  the  Eucharist, 
Their  wafer  and  perpetual  sacrifice : 
Your  creed  will  be  your  death. 

Cranmer.  Step  after  step, 

Thro'  many  voices   crying   right   and 

left, 
Have  I  climb'd  back  into  the  primal 

church, 
And  stand  within  the  porch,  and  Christ 

with  me  : 
Mv  flight  were  such  a  scandal  to  the 

faith. 
The  downfall  of  so  many  simple  souls, 
I  dare  not  leave  my  post. 

Peter  Martyr.  But  you  divorced 

Queen  Catharine  and  her  father;  hence, 

her  hate 
Will  burn  till  you  are  burn'd. 

Cranmer.  I  cannot  help  it. 

The   Canonists  and   Schoolmen  were 

with  me. 
"Thou    shalt  not  wed  thy  brother's 

wife." — 'Tis  written, 
"They    shall    be    childless."      True, 

Mary  was  born. 
But  France  would  not  accept  her  for  a 

bride 
As  being  born  from  incest;  and  this 

wrought 
Upon  the   king  ;  and   child  by   child, 

you  know, 
Were     momentary    sparkles,   out   as 

quick 
Almost  as   kindled ;   and  he  brought 

his  doubts 
And  fears  to  me.     Peter,  I'll  swear  for 

him 
He  did  believe  the  bond  incestuous. 
But  wherefore  am  I  trenching  on  the 

time 


That  should  already  have  seen  you* 

steps  a  mile 
From  me  and  Lambeth  ?     God  be  v>'ith 
you  !     Go. 
Peter  Martyr.  Ah,  but  how  fierce  a 
letter  you  wrote  against 
Their  superstition  when  they  slander'd 

you 
For  setting  up  a  mass  at  Canterbury 
To  please  the  Queen. 

Cranmer.    It  was  a  wheedling  monk 
Set  up  the  mass. 
Peter  Martyr.  I  know   it,  my  good 
Lord. 
But  you  so  bubbled    over  with  hot 

terms 
Of  Satan,  liars,  blasphemy.  Antichrist, 
She  never  will  forgive  you.     Fly,  my 
Lord,  fly ! 
Cranmer.  I  wrote  it,  and  God  grant 

me  power  to  burn ! 
Peter  Martyr.  They  have  given  me 
a  safe  conduct  :  for  all  that 
I  dare  not  stay.    I  fear,  I  fear,  I  see 

you, 
Dear  friend, for  the  last  time;  farewell, 
and  fly. 
Cranmer.  Fly  and  farewell,  and  let 
me  die  the  death. 

\Exit  Peter  Martyr. 

Enter  Old  Servant. 

Old  Servant.    O,   kind    and  gentle 
master,  the  Queen's  Officers 
Are  here  in  force  to  take  you  to  the 
Tower. 

Cranmer.   Ay,  gentle  friend,  admit 
them.     I  will  go. 
I  thank  my  God  it  is  too  late  to  fly. 

{^Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— ST.  PAUL'S  CROSS. 

Father  Bourne  m  the  pulpit.  A 
crowd.  Marchioness  of  Exeter, 
Courtenay.  The  Sieur  de  Noail- 
LES  and  his  ?nan  Roger  in  front  oj 
the  stage.     Hubbub. 

Noailles.    Hast   thou   let   fall   tho.^ 

papers  in  the  palace  ^. 
Roger.  Ay,  sir. 


Noailles.  "  There  will  be  no  peace 
for  Mary  till  Elizabeth  lose  her  head." 

Roger.  Ay,  sir. 

Noailles.  And  the  other.  "Long 
Ijve  Elizabeth  the  Queen." 

Roger.  Ay,  sir ;  she  needs  must  tread 
upon  them. 

Noailles.  Well. 

These    beastly   swine    make    such   a 

grunting  here, 
I  cannot  catch  what  Father  Bourne  is 
saying. 

Roger.  Quiet  a  moment,  my  masters ; 
hear  what  the  shaveling  has  to  say  for 
himself. 

Crowd.  Hush — hear. 

Bourne.  — and  so  this  unhappy  land, 
long  divided  in  itself,  and  sever'd  from 
the  faith,  will  return  into  the  one  true 
fold,  seeing  that  our  gracious  Virgin 
Queen  hath — 

Crozud.  No  pope  !  no  pope  ! 

Roger,  {to  those  about  him,  mimick- 
ing Bourne).  — hath  sent  for  the  holy 
legate  of  the  holy  father  the  Pope, 
Cardinal  Pole,  to  give  us  all  that  holy 
absolution  which — 

First  Citizen.  Old  Bourne  to  the  life  ! 

Second  Citizen.  Holy  absolution  !  holy 
Inquisition !     • 

Third  Citizen.  Down  with  the   Pa- 
pist. [Hubbub. 

Bourne.  — and  now  that  your  good 
bishop,  Bonner,  who  hath  lain  so  long 
under  bonds  for  the  faith —      [Hubbub. 

Noailles.  Friend  Roger,  steal  thou  in 
among  the  crowd, 
And  get  the  swine  to  shout  Elizabeth. 
Yon  gray  old  Gospeller,  sour  as  mid- 
winter, 
Begin  with  him. 

Roger  [goes).  By  the  mass,  old  friend, 
we'll  have  no  pope  here  while  the  Lady 
Elizabeth  lives. 

Gospeller.  Art  thou  of  the  true  faith, 
fellow,  that  swearest  by  the  mass  } 

Roger.  Ay.  that  am  I,  new  converted, 
but  the  old  leaven  sticks  to  my  tongue 
yet. 

First  Citizen.  He  says  right :  by  the 
mass  we'll  have  no  mass  here. 


Voices  of  the  Crowd.  Peace  !  hear  him ; 
let  his  own  words  damn  the  Papist. 
From  thine  own  mouth  I  judge  thee — 
tear  him  down. 

Bourne.  — and  since  our  Gracious 
Queen,  let  me  call  her  our  second  Vir- 
gin Mary,  hath  begun  to  re-edify  the 
true  temple — 

First  Citizen.  Virgin  Mary  !  we'll 
have  no  virgins  here— we'll  have  the 
Lady  Elizabeth ! 

[Swords    are    drawn,   a    knife    is 

hurled,  and  sticks  in  the  ptdpit. 

The    mob   throng    tc    the  pulpit 

stairs. 

Marchioness  of  Exeter.    Son  Cour- 

tenay,  wilt  thou  see  the  holy  father 

Murder'd  before  thy  face .''  up,  son,  and 

save  him  ! 
They  love  thee,  and   thou   canst   not 
come  to  harm. 
Courtenay    {in    the  pidpit).    Shame, 
shame,  my  masters  !  are  you  Eng- 
lish-born, 
And  set  yourselves  by  hundreds  against 
one? 
Croxvd.  A  Courtenay !  a  Courtenay  ! 
[A  train  of  Spanish  servants  crosses 
at  the  back  of  the  stage. 
Noailles.    These    birds    of    passage 
come  before  their  time  : 
Stave  off  the  crowd  upon  the  Spaniard 
there. 
Roger.  My  masters,  yonder's  fatter 
game  for  you 
Than  this  old  gaping  gurgoyle  :  look 

you  there — 
The  Prince  of  Spain  coming  to  wed 

our  Queen  ! 
After  him,  boys  !  and  pelt  him  from 
the  city. 

[  They  seize   stones   and  follow   the 
Spaniards.     Exeunt  on  the  other 
side  Marchioness  of  Exeter 
and  Attendants. 
Noailles  (to  Roger).  Stand  from  me 
If  Elizabeth  lose  her  head — 
That  makes  for  France. 
And  if  her  people,  anger'd  thereupon. 
Arise   against   her    and   dethrone   the 
Queen — 


542 


QUEEN  MARY. 


That  makes  for  France. 

And  if  I  breed  confusion  anyway — 

That  makes  for  France. 

Good  day,  my  Lord  of  Devon ; 
A  bold  heart  yours  to  beard  that  rag- 
ing mob ! 
Courtenay.  My  mother  said,  Go  up ; 
and  up  I  went. 
I  knew  they  would  not  do  me  any 

wrong,  ' 
For  I  am  mighty  popular  with  them, 
Noailles 
Noatlles.  You  look'd  a  king. 
Courtenay.  Why  not,?   1  am  king's 

blood. 
Noailles.  And  in  the  whirl  of  change 

may  come  to  be  one. 
Courtenay.  Ah  I 
Noailles   But    does    your   gracious 

Queen  entreat  you  king-like  ? 
Courtenay   'Fore  God,  I  thmk  she 

entreats  me  like  a  child. 
Noailles.  You've  but  a  dull  life  in  this 
maiden  court, 
I  fear,  my  Lord. 
Courtenay.  A  life  of  nods  and  yawns. 
Noailles.  So    you  would   honor  my 
poor  house  to-night. 
We  might  enliven  you.     Divers  honest 

fellows, 
The  Duke  of  Suffolk  lately  freed  from 

prison, 
Sir  Peter    Carew    and    Sir    Thomas 

Wyatt, 
Sir  Thomas  Stafford,  and  some  more 
— we  play. 
Courtenay.  At  what  ? 
Noailles.         The  Game  of  Chess. 
Courtenay         The  Game  of  Chess  I 
I  can  play  well,  and  I  shall  beat  you 
there. 
Noailles.  Ay,  but  we  play  with  Henry, 
King  of  France, 
\nd  certain  of  his  court 
His  Highness  makes  his  moves  across 

the  channel, 
We  answer  him  with  ours  and  there 

are  messengers 
That  go  between  us. 

Courtenay.  Why,  such   a  game,  sir, 
w»re  whole  years  a  playing. 


Noailles.  Nay ;  not  so   long,  I  trust 
That  all  depends 
Upon  the  skill  and  swiftness  of  the 
players. 
Courtenay.  The  King  is  skilful  at  it  ? 
Noailles.  Very,  my  Lord. 

Courtenay.  And  the  stakes  high } 
Noailles.  But  not  beyond  your  means. 
Courtenay.  Well,   I'm    the  first    of 

players.     1  shall  win. 
Noailles.  With  our  advice  and  in  our 
company, 
And  so  you  will  attend  to  the  king's 

moves, 
I  think  you  may. 

Courtenay.  When  do  you  meet  ? 
Noatlles  To-night. 

Courtenay  [aside)    1  will  be  there; 
the  fellow's  at  his  tricks — 
Deep — I   shall  fathom    him.  (Aloud.) 
Good-morning,  Noailles 

[Exit  COURTENAY. 
Noailles.    Good-day,      my      Lord. 
Strange  game  of  chess  i  a  King 
That  with  her  own  pawns  plays  against 

a  Queen, 
Whose  play  is  all  to  find  herself  a 

King. 
Ay ;  but  this  fine  blue-blooded  Cour- 
tenay seems  ' 
Too  princely  for  a  pawn.    Call  him  a 

Knight, 
That,  with   an  ass's  not  an    horse'.s 

head. 
Skips  every  way,  from  levity  or  from 

fear. 
Well,  we  shall  use  him  somehow,  so 

that  Gardiner 
And  Simon  Renard  spy  not  out  our 

game 
Too  early.     Roger,  thmkest  thou  thai 

any  one 
Suspected  thee  to  be  my  man } 

Roger.  '  Not  one,  sir. 

Noailles.  No!  the  disguise  was  per 

feet.     Let's  away  !  \Exeu.m 


i^ 


QUEEN  MARY. 


543 


SCENE  IV.— LONDON.    A  ROOM 
IN  THE  PALACE. 

Elizabeth.    Enter  Courtenay. 

Courtenay.  So  yet  am  I, 
Unless  my  friends  and  minors  lie  to 

me, 
A  goodlier-looking    fellow   than    this 

Philip. 
Pah! 
The  Queen  is  ill  advised :  shall  I  turn 

traitor .? 
They've  almost  talk'd  me  into :  yet  the 

word 
Affrights  me  somewhat ;  to  be  such  a 

one 
As  Harry  Bolingbroke  hath  a  lure  in 

it. 
Good  now,  my  Lady  Queen,  tho'  by 

your  age, 
And  by  your  looks  you  are  not  worth 

the  having, 
Yet  by  your  crown  you  are. 

{Seeing  ELIZABETH. 
The  Princess  there  "i 
If  I  tried  her  and  la — she's  amorous. 
Have  we  not  heard  of  her  in  Edward's 

time, 
Her  freaks  and  frolics  with  the  late 

Lord  Admiral  ? 
I  do  believe  she'd  yield.     I  should  be 

still  _ 
A  party  in  the  state ;  and  then,  who 
knows — 
Elizabeth.  What  are  you  musing  on, 

my  Lord  of  Devon  } 
Courtenay.  Has  not  the  Queen — 
Elizabeth.  Done  what,  Sir  ? 

Courtenay.  — Made  you  follow 

The  Lady  Suffolk  and  the  Lady  Lennox. 
You, 

The  heir  presumptive. 
Elizabeth.  Why   do  you    ask  ?    you 

know  it. 
Courtenay.  You  needs  must  bear  it 

hardly. 
Elizabeth.  No,  indeed ! 

I  am  utterly  submissive  to  the  Queen. 
Courtenay.  Well,  I  was  musing  upon 
that;  the  Queen 


Is  both  my  foe  and  yours :  we  should 
be  friends. 
Elizabeth.  My  Lord,  the    hatred   of 
another  to  us 
Is  no  true  bond  of  friendship. 

Courtenay.  Might  it  not 

Be  the  rough  preface  of  some  closer 
bond } 
Elizabeth.  My  Lord,  you   late   were 
loosed  frorq  out  the  Tower, 
Where,  like  a  butterfly  in  a  chrysalis, 
You  spent  your  life;  that  broken,  out 

you  flutter 
Thro'  the  new  world,  go  zigzag,  now 

would  settle 
Upon   this   flower,  now   that;   but  all 
things  here  [ited 

At  court  are  known ;  you  have  solic- 
The  Queen,  and  been  rejected. 

Courtenay.  Flower,  she  ! 

Half  faded  !  but  you,  cousin,  are  fresh 

and  sweet 
As  the  first   flower  no  bee   has  ever 
tried. 
Elizabeth.  Are  you   the  bee   to  try 
me  "i  why,  but  now 
I  called  you  butterfly. 

Courtenay.  You  did  me  wrong, 

I  love  not  to  be  called  a  butterfly : 
Why  do  you  call  me  butterfly  .-* 

Elizabeth.  Why  do  you   go  so  gay 

then  t 
Courtenay.  Velvet  and  gold. 

This  dress  was  made  me  as  the  Earl  of 

Devon 
To  take  my  seat  in :  looks  it  not  right 
royal  ? 
Elizabeth.  So  royal  that  the  Quee^. 

forbade  you  wearing  it. 
Courtenay.  I  wear  it  then  to  spite 

her. 
Elizabeth.  My  Lord,  my  Lord; 

I  see  you  in  the  Tower  again.     Hei 

Majesty 
Hears  you  affect  the  Prince — prelates 
kneel  to  you. — 
Courtenay.  I  am  the  noblest  blood 
in  Europe,  Madam, 
A  Courtenay  of  Devon,  and  her  cousin. 
Elizabeth.     She  hears  you  make  your 
boast  that  after  all 


544 


QUEEN  MARY. 


She   means   to  wed   you.     Folly,    my 
good  Lord. 
Courtenay.  How  folly  ?  a  great  party 
in  the  state 
Wills  me  to  wed  her. 

Elizabeth.  Failing  her,  my  Lord, 

Doth  not  as  great  a  party  in  the  state 
Will  you  to  wed  me  .'' 

Courtenay.  Even  so,  fair  lady. 

Elizabeth.  You  know  to  flatter  ladies. 
Courtenay.  Nay,  I  meant 

True  matters  of  the  heart. 

Elizabeth.  My  heart,  my  Lord, 

Is  no  great  party  in  the  state  as  yet. 
Courtenay    Great,  said  you  >  nay,  you 
shall  be  great.     I  love  you, 
Lay  my  life  in  your  hands.     Can  you 
be  close  } 
Elizabeth.  Can  you,  my  Lord  ? 
Courtenay.  Close  as  a  miser's  casket. 
Listen : 

The  King  of  France,  Noailles  the  Am- 
bassador, 
The  Duke  of  Suffolk  and  Sir  Peter 

Carew, 
Sir   Thomas    Wyatt,   I  myself,  some 

others, 
Have  sworn    this    Spanish   marriage 

shall  not  be. 
If  Mary  will  not  hear  us — well — con- 
jecture— 
Were    I   in  Devon  with  my  wedded 

bride. 
The  people  there  so    worship  me — 

Your  ear ; 
You  shall  be  Queen. 

Elizabeth.  You  speak  too   low,  my 
Lord  ; 
I  cannot  hear  you. 

Courtenay.  I'll  repeat  it. 

Elizabeth.  No  ! 

Stand  farther  off,  or  you  may  lose  your 
head. 
Courtenay.  I  have  a  head  to  lose  for 

your  sweet  sake. 
Elizabeth.  Have  you,  my  Lord  ?  Best 
keep  it  for  your  own. 
Nay,  pout  not,  cousin. 
Not  many  friends  are  mine,  except  in- 
deed 
Among  the  mary.     I  believe  you  mine  ; 


And  so  you  may  continue  mine,  fare 

well, 
And  that  at  once. 

Enter  Mary,  behind. 

Mary.  Whispering — leagued  tc 

get her 
To  bar  me  from  my  Philip. 

Courtenay.  Pray — consider— 

Elizabeth  [seeing  the  Quee'N).     Well, 

that's  a  noble  horse  of  yours,  my 

Lord. 

I  trust  that  he  will  carry  you  well  to-day. 

And  heal  your  headache. 

Courtenay.    You     are     wild ;    what 
headache  ? 
Heartache,  perchance  ;  not  headache. 
Elizabeth     [aside    to     Courtenay). 
Are  you  blind.-* 

{Courtenay  sees  the  QuEEN  and  exit. 
Exit  Mary. 

Enter  Lord  William  Howard. 

Howard.  Was  that    my    Lord     of 

Devon  "i  do  not  you 
Be  seen  in  corners  with  my  Lord  of 

Devon. 
He  hath  fallen  out  of  favor  with  the 

Queen. 
She  fears  the  Lords  may  side  with  you 

and  him 
Against  her  marriage  ;  therefore  is  he 

dangerous. 
And  if  this  Prince  of  fluff  and  feather 

come 
To  woo  you,  niece,  he  is    dangerous 

every  way. 
Elizabeth.  Not  very  dangerous  that 

way,  my  good  uncle. 
Howard.  But  your  own  state  is  full 

of  danger  here. 
The  disaffected,  heretics,  reformers. 
Look  to  you  as  the  one  to  crown  their 

ends. 
Mix  not  yourself  with  any  plot,  I  pray 

you; 
Nay,  if  by  chance  you  hear  of  any 

such, 
Speak  not  thereof —no,  not  toyourbesi 

friend. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


545 


Lest  you  should  be  confounded  with  it. 

Still— 
Perinde  ac  cadaver — as  the  priest  says, 
You  know  your  Latin — quiet  as  a  dead 

body. 
What  was  my  Lord  of  Devon  telling 

you  ? 
Elizabeth.  Whether  he  told  me  any 

thing  or  not, 
(  follow  your  good  counsel,  gracious 

uncle. 
Quiet  as  a  dead  body. 

Howard.  You  do  right  well. 

I  do  not  care  to   know,  but  this   I 

charge  you. 
Tell   Courtenay  nothing.    The    Lord 

Chancellor 
(I  count  it  as  a  kind  of  virtue  in  him, 
He  hath  not  many),  as  a  mastiff   dog 
May  love   a   puppy  cur   for  no   more 

reason 
Than  that  the  twain  have  been  tied  up 

together. 
Thus  Gardiner — for  the  two  were  fel- 
low prisoners 
So  many  years  in  yon  accursed  Tower — 
Hath  taken  to  this  Courtenay.     Look 

to  it,  niece, 
He    hath    no    fence    when    Gardiner 

questions  him  ; 
All  oozes  out ;  yet  him — because  they 

know  him 
The  last  White  Rose,  the  last  Planta- 

genet 
(Nay,  there  is  Cardinal  Pole,  too),  the 

people 
Claim  as  their  natural  leader — ay,  some 

say, 
That  you  shall  marry  him,  make  him 

King  belike. 
Elizabeth.  Do     they    say    so,   good 

uncle } 
Howard.  Ay,  good  niece  ! 

You  should  be  plain  and  open  with  me, 

niece. 
You  should  not  play  upon  me. 
Elizabeth.  No,  good  uncle. 

Enter  Gardiner. 
Gardiner.  The    Queen    would    see 
your  Grace  upon  the  moment. 


Elizabeth.  Why,  my  lord  Bishop  ? 
Gardiner.  I    think    she    means     to 
counsel  your  withdrawing 
To  Ashridge,  or  some  other   country 
house. 
Elizabeth.  Why,  my  lord  Bishop  ? 
Gardiner,  I  do  but  bring  the  mes- 
sage, know  no  more. 
Your  Grace  will  hear  her  reasons  from 
herself. 
Elizabeth.  'Tis  mine  own  wish  ful- 
fill'd  before  the  word 
Was  spoken,  for  in  truth  I  had  meant 

to  crave 
Permission  of  her  Highness  to  retire 
To  Ashridge,  and  pursue  my  studies 
there. 
Gardiner.  Madam,  to  have  the  wish 
before  the  word 
Is  man's  good  Fairy — and  the  Queen 

is  yours. 
I  left  her  with  rich  jewels  in  her  hand. 
Whereof  'tis  like  enough  she  means  to 

make 
A  farewell  present  to  your  Grace. 

Elizabeth.  My  Lord, 

I  have  the  jewel  of  a  loyal  heart. 
Gardiner.  I  dou1)t    it   not.  Madam, 
most  loyal.         \Bows  low  and  exit. 
Howard.  See, 
This  comes  of  parleying  with  my  Lord 
of  Devon.  .  [self 

Well,  well,  you  must  obey;  and  I  my- 
Believe  it  will  be  better  for  your  wel- 
fare. 
Your  time  will  come. 

Elizabeth.  I  think  my  time  will  come. 
Uncle, 

I  am  of  sovereign  nature,  that  I  know. 
Not   to   be   quell'd ;  and  I   have   felt 

within  me 
Stirrings   of  some   great   doom   when 

God's  just  hour 
Peals — but  this  fierce  old  Gardiner — 

his  big  baldness, 
That  irritable  forelock  which  he  rubs. 
His  buzzard  beak  and  deep-incavern'd 

eyes 
Half  fright  me. 
Howard.  You've  a  bold  heart ;  keep 
it  so. 


54^ 


QUEEN  MARY. 


He  cannot  touch  you  save  that  you 

turn  traitor  ; 
And  so  take  heed  I  pray  you — you  are 

one 
"Who  love  that  men  should  smile  upon 

you,  niece. 
They'd   smile  you  into  treason — some 

of  them. 
Elizabeth.  I  spy  the  rock  beneath  the 

smiling  sea. 
But  if  this  Philip,  the  proud  Catholic 

prince, 
And  this  bald  priest,  and  she  that  hates 

me,  seek  [life. 

In  that  lone  house,  to  practise  on  my 
By  poison,  fire,  shot,  stab — 

Hcnuard.  They  will  not,  niece. 

Mine  is  the  fleet  and  all  the  power  at 

sea — 
Or    will    be  in  a  moment.     If    they 

dared 
To  harm  you,  I  would  blow  this  Philip 

and  all 
Your  trouble  to  the  dogstar  and  the 

devil. 
Elizabeth.  To    the    Pleiads,   uncle ; 

they  have  lost  a  sister. 
Howard.  But  why    say  that?    what 

have  you  done  to  lose  her  .? 
Come,  come,  I  will  go  with  you  to  the 

Queen.  \Exetmt. 

SCENE  v.— A  ROOM  IN  THE 
PALACE. 

Mary  ivith  Philip's  miniature.  Alice. 

Mary  [kissing  the  miniature).     Most 

goodly,  king-like,  and  an  emperor's 

son, — 
A  king  to  be, — is  he  not  noble,  girl  ? 
Alice.  Goodly  enough,  your  Grace, 

and  yet,  methinks, 
I  have  seen  goodlier. 

Mary.  Ay ;  some  waxen  doll 

Thy  baby  eyes  have  rested  on,  belike  ; 
\11  red  and  white,  the  fashion   of  our 

land. 
But  my  good  mother  came  (God  rest 

her  soul) 
Of  Spain,  and  I  am  Spanish  in  myself, 
And  in  my  likings. 


Alice.  By  your  Grace's  leave 

Your  royal  mother  came  of  Spain,  but 

took 
To  the  English  red  and  white.     Your 

royal  father 
(For  so  they  say)  was  all  pure  lily  and 

rose 
In  his  youth,  and  like  a  lady. 

Mary.  O,  just  God  5 

Sweet  mother,  you  had  time  and  cause 

enough 
To  sicken  of  his  lilies  and  his  roses. 
Cast  off,  betray'd,  defamed,  divorced, 

forlorn  ! 
And  then  the  king — that  traitor  past 

forgiveness, 
The  false  archbishop  fawning  on  him, 

married 
The  mother  of  Elizabeth— a  heretic 
Ev'n  as  she  is  ;  but  God  hath  sent  me 

here 
To  take  such  order  with  all  heretics 
That  it  shall  be,  before  I  die,  as  tho' 
My  father   and   my  brother  had  not 

lived. 
What  wast  thou  saying  of  this  Lady 

Jane, 
Now  in  the  Tower  } 
Alice.  Why,  Madam,  she  was  pass- 
ing [her 
Some  chapel  down  in  Essex,  and  with 
Lady  Anne   Wharton,  and  the    Lady 

Anne 
Bow'd   to   the   Pyx ;    but  Lady  Jane 

stood  up 
Stiff  as  the  very  backbone  of  heresy. 
And  wherefore  bow  ye  not,  says  Lady 

Anne, 
To  him  within  there  who  made  Heaven 

and  Earth  ? 
I  cannot,  and  I  dare  not,  tell  your  Grace 
What  Lady  Jane  replied. 
Mary.  But  I  will  have  it 

Alice.  She   said — pray  pardon   me, 

and  pity  her — 
She  hath  hearken'd  evil  counsel — ahJ 

she  said, 
The  baker  made  him. 

Mary.    Monstrous  I  blasphemous  I 
She    ought   to    burn.      Hence,   thou 

{Exit  Alice.)    No — being  traitor 


QUEEN  MARY. 


547 


Her  head  will  fall :  shall  it  ?  she  is  but 

a  child. 
We  do  not  kill  the  child  for  doing  that 
His   father   whipt   him  into  doing — a 

head 
>o  full  of  grace   and  beauty !  would 

that  mine 
Were  half  as  gracious  !     O,  my  lord  to 

be, 

|My  love,  for  thy  sake  only. 
|l  am  eleven  years  older  than  he  is. 
iBirt  will  he  care  for  that .'' 

fo,  by  the  holy  Virgin,  being  noble, 
5ut  love   me   only :  then   the   bastard 

sprout, 
ly  sister,  is  far  fairer  than  myself. 
ijWill  he  be  drawn  to  her? 
t^lNo,  being  of  the  true  faith  with  myself. 
fePaget   is  for    him — for   to    wed   with 

Spain 
^"NVould    treble   England — Gardiner  is 

against  him  ; 
The     Council,     people,      Parliament 

against  him  ; 
But  I  will  have  him !     My  hard  father 

hated  me ; 
My    brother    rather  hated    me    than 

loved : 
My  sister  cowers  and  hates  me.     Holy 

Virgin, 
Plead  with  thy  blessed  Son  ;  grant  me 

my  prayer ; 
Give  me  my  Philip ;  and  we  two  will 

lead 
The  living  waters  of  the  Faith  again 
Back  thro'  their  widow'd  channel  here, 

and  watch 
The  parch'd  banks  rolling   incense,  as 

of  old. 
To  heaven,  and  kindled  with  the  palms 

of  Christ! 

Enter  Usher. 

Who  waits,  Sir  ? 

Usher  Madam,  the  Lord  Chancel- 
lor. 

Mary.  Bid  him  come  in.  [Enter 
Gardiner.)  Good-morning,  my 
good  Lord.  \Exit  Usher. 

Gardiner.  That  every  morning  of 
your  Majesty 


May  be  most  good,  is  every  morning*s 

prayer 
Of  your  most  loyal  subject,  Stephen 

Gardiner. 
Mary.     Come   you  to  tell  me  thiSj 

my  Lord  t 
Gardiner.        And  more. 
Your  people  have  begun  to  learn  your 

worth. 
Your  pious  wish  to  pay  King  Edward's 

debts, 
Your  lavish  household  curb'd,  and  the 

remission 
Of  half  that  subsidy  levied  on  the  peo- 
ple. 
Make  all  tongues  praise  and  all  hearts 

beat  for  you. 
I'd   have  you  yet    more  loved ;    the 

realm  is  poor, 
The  exchequer  at  neap-ebb:  we  might 

withdraw 
Part  of  our  garrison  at  Calais. 

Mary.  Calais ! 

Our  one  point  on  the  main,  the  gate  of 

France ! 
I  am  Queen  of  England;  take  mine 

eyes,  mine  heart, 
But  do  not  lose  me  Calais. 

Gardi7ier.  Do  not  fear  it. 

Of  that  hereafter.     I  say  your  Grace 

is  loved. 
That  I  may  keep  you  thus,  who   am 

you  friend 
And  ever  faithful  counsellor,  might  I 

speak } 
Mary.  I  can  forespeak  your  speak- 
ing.    Would  I  marry 
Prince  Philip,  if  all  England  hate  him? 

That  is 
Your   question,   and   I   front   it  with 

another : 
Is  it  England,  or  a  party  t     Now,  your 

answer. 
Gardiner.     My   answer   is,    I   wear 

beneath  my  dress 
A  shirt  of  mail :  my  house  hath  been 

assaulted, 
And  when  I  walk  abroad,  the   popu- 
lace. 
With   fingers    pointed  like   so  many 

daggers, 


548 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Stab  me  in  fancy,  hissing    Spain   and 

Philip; 
And  when  I  sleep,  a  hundred  men-at- 
arms 
Guard   my  poor   dreams  for  England. 

Men  would  murder  me. 
Because  they  think  me  favorer  of  this 
marriage. 
Mary.     And   that   were  hard  upon 

you,  my  Lord  Chancellor. 
Gardiner.   But    our    young  Earl   of 

Devon — 
Mary.  Earl  of  Devon  ? 

7  freed   him  from  the  Tower,  placed 

him  at  Court  ; 
I  made  him  Earl  of  Devon,  and — the 

fool- 
He  wrecks  his  health  and  wealth  on 

courtesans, 
And  rolls  himself  in  carrion  like  a  dog. 
Gardiner.  More  like    a    school-boy 
that  hath  broken  bounds, 
Sickening  himself  with  sweets. 

Mary.  I  will  not  hear  of  him. 

Good,  then,  they  will  revolt :  but  I  am 

Tudor, 
And  shall  control  them. 

Gardiner.     I  will  help  you,  Madam, 
Even  to  the  utmost.     All  the  church  is 

grateful. 
You  have  ousted  the  mock  priest,  re- 

pulpited 
The  shepherd  of  St.  Peter,  raised  the 

rood  again, 
And  brought  us  back  the  mass.     I  am 

all  thanks 
To   God   and  to  your   Grace  :  yet  I 

know  well, 
Your  people,  and  I  go  with  them   so 

far. 
Will   brook  nor   Pope   nor   Spaniard 

here  to  play 
The  tyrant,  or  in  commonwealth  or 
church. 
Mary  {showingthe  picture).     Is  this 
the  face  of  one  who    plays  the 
tyrant .' 
Peruse   it :  is   it  not  goodly,  ay,  and 
gentle  t 
Gardiner.  Madam,  methinks  a  cold 
face  and  a  haughty. 


And  when    your    Highness   talks   oi 

Courtenay — 
Ay,  true — a  goodly  one.    I  would  his 

life 
Were  half  as  goodly  (aside). 
Mary.         What  is  that  you  mutter  ? 
Gardiner.      Oh,     Madam,    take    it 
bluntly;  marry  Philip, 
And  be  step-mother  of  a  score  of  sons! 
The    prince   is   known   in    Spain,   in 

Flanders,  ha! 
For  Philip— 
Mary.     You   offend    us;    you   may 
leave  us. 
You  see  thro'  warping  glasses. 

Gardiner.  If  your  Majesty — 

Mary.  I  have  sworn  upon  the  body 
and  blood  of  Christ 
I'll  none  but  Philip. 

Gardiner.      Hath    your    Grace    so 

sworn  ? 
Mary.     Ay,  Simon  Renard  knows  it. 
Gardiner.  News  to  me  ! 

It  then  remains  for  your  poor  Gardiner, 
So  you  still  care  to  trust  him  some- 
what less  [event 
Than  Simon  Renard,  to  compose  the 
In  some  such  form  as  least  may  harm 
your  Grace. 
Mary.  I'll  have  the  scandal  sounded 
to  the  mud. 
I  know  it  a  scandal. 

Gardiner.  All  my  hope  is  now 

It  may  be  found  a  scandal. 

Mary.  You  offend  us. 

Gardiner    (aside).      These     princes 

are   like   children,  must  be  phys- 

ick'd, 

The  bitter  in  the  sweet.     I  have   lost 

mine  ofifice, 
It  may  be,  thro'  mine  honesty,  like  a 
fool.  [Exit. 

Enter  Usher. 

Mary.  Who  waits  ? 

Usher.      The      Ambassador     from 
France,  your  Grace. 

Mary.     Bid    him   come   in.     Good- 
morning,  Sir  de  Noailles. 

\Exit  Usher 


QUEEN  MARY. 


549 


NocUlles  {entering).    A  happy  morn- 
ing to  your  Majesty. 
Mary.     And   I   should   some    time 

have  a  happy  morning  ; 
I  have  had  none  yet.     What  says  the 

King  your  master  ? 
Noailles.  Madam,  my  master  hears, 

with  much  alarm, 
That  you  may  marry  Philip,  Prince  of 

Spain —  [ness, 

Foreseeing,    with    whate'er  unwilling- 
That  if  this  Philip  be  the  titular  king 
Of  England,   and   at  war   with    him, 

your  Grace 
And   kingdom  will  be  suck'd  into  the 

war, 
Ay,  tho'  you  long  for  peace ;  wherefore, 

my  master. 
If  but  to  prove  your  Majesty's  good 

will, 
Would   fain   have   some   fresh  treaty 

drawn  between  you. 
Mary.      Why  some    fresh    treaty  ? 

wherefore  should  I  do  it .? 
Sir,  if  we  marry,  we  shall   still  main- 
tain 
All  former  treaties  with  his  Majesty. 
Our  royal   word   for  that  I    and  your 

good  master, 
Pray   God  he   do  not  be  the  first  to 

break  them. 
Must  be   content  with  that ;  and  so, 

farewell. 
Noailles  [going, 

your    answer 

Madam, 
For  I  foresee  dark  days. 

Mary.  And  so  do  I,  sir  ; 

Your  master  works  against  me  in  the 

dark. 
I  do  believe  he  holp  Northumberland 
Against  me. 
Noailles.     Nay,  pure   fantasy,  your 

Grace. 
Why  should  he  move  against  you  ? 

Mary,  Will  you  hear  why  ? 

Mary  of    Scotland, — for   I   have   not 

own'd 
My  sister,  and  I  will  not, — after  me 
Is   heir   of   England ;    and   my   royal 

father, 


rehirns).     I    would 
had    been     other, 


To  make  the  crown  of   Scotland   one 

with  ours, 
Had  mark'd  her   for  my  brother  Ed- 
ward's bride  ; 
Ay,  but   your   king  stole   her  a  babe 

from  Scotland 
In  order  to  betroth  her  to  your  Dau« 

phin. 
See  then  : 
Mary   of   Scotland,  married  to    your 

Dauphin, 
Would  make  our  England,  France  ; 
Mary  of  England,  joining  hands  with 

Spain, 
Would  be  too  strong  for  France. 
Yea,  were   there   issue   born   to   her, 

Spain  and  we. 
One     crown,   might   rule    the   world. 

There  lies  your  fear. 
That  is  your  drift.     You  play  at  hide 

and  seek. 
Show  me  your  faces ! 

Noailles.         Madam,  I  am  amazed  : 
French,   I   must  needs  wish  all  good 

things  for  France. 
That  must  be   pardon'd  me  ;    but  I 

protest 
Your   Grace's   policy   hath   a   farther 

flight  [seek 

Than  mine  into  the  future.     We  but 
Some  settled  ground  for  peace  to  stand 

upon. 
Mary.     Well,  we  will  leave  all  this, 

sir,  to  our  council. 
Have  you  seen  Philip  ever  1 

Noailles.  Only  once. 

Mary.     Is  this  like  Philip  ? 
Noailles.         Ay,  but  nobler-looking. 
Mary.  Hath  he  the  large   ability   of 

the  Emperor  ? 
Noailles.     No,  surely. 
Mary.  I    can   make    allowance    for 

thee, 
Thou  speakest  of  the   enemy  of  thy 

king. 
Noailles.     Make  no  allowance  for  the 

naked  truth. 
He   is   every   way  a  lesser  man   than 

Charles  : 
Stone-hard,  ice-cold — no  dash  of  dar- 

ing  in  him. 


550 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Mary.  If  cold,  his  life  is  pure. 
Noailles,  Why  {smiling),  no,  indeed. 
Mary.  Sciyst  thou  ? 
Noailles.  A  very  wanton  life  indeed 

{smilino;). 
Mary.  Your  audience  is  concluded, 
sir. 

\^Exit  Noailles. 
You  cannot 
Learn  a  man's  nature  from  his  natural 
foe. 

Enter  Usher. 

Who  waits? 

Usher.     The  ambassador  of    Spain, 
your  Grace.  \Exit. 

Enter  SiMON  Renard. 

Mary.     Thou     art    ever    welcome, 

Simon  Renard.     Hast  thou 
Brought   me   the   letter    which   thine 

Emperor  promised 
Long  since,  a  formal  offer  of  the  hand 

of  Philip  t 
Renard.  Nay,  your    Grace,  it   hath 

not  reach'd  me. 
I   know    not    wherefore — some    mis- 
chance of  flood, 
And  broken  bridge,  or  spavin'd  horse, 

or  wave 
And  wind  at  their  old  battle  ;  he  must 

have  written. 
Mary.  But   Philip  never  writes  me 

one  poor  word, 
Which  in  his  absence  had  been  all  my 

wealth. 
Strange  in  a  wooer  ! 

Renard.  Yet  I  know  the  Prince, 

So  your  king-parliament  suffer  him  to 

land. 
Yearns  to  set  foot  upon  your  island 

shore. 
Mary.      God    change     the     pebble 

which  his  kingly  foot 
First  presses  into  soipe   more  costly 

stone 
Than  ever  blinded  eye.     I'll  have  one 

mark  it 
And  bring  it  me.     I'll  have  it  burn- 

ish'd  firelike; 


I'll  set  it  round  with  gold,  with  pearl, 

with  diamond. 
Let  the  great  angel  of  the  church  come 

with  him  ; 
Stand   on   the    deck   and    spread   his 

wings  for  sail ! 
God   lay   the    waves   and    strew    the 

storms  at  sea, 
And   here  at  land   among  the  people. 

O  Renard, 
I  am  much  beset,  I  am  almost  in   de- 
spair. 
Paget  is  ours.     Gardiner  perchance  is 

ours  ; 
But  for  our  heretic  Parliament — 

Renard.  O  Madam, 

You  fly  your  thoughts  like  kites.     My 

master,  Charles, 
Bade  you  go  softly  with  your   heretics 

here, 
Until  your  throne  had  ceased  to  trem- 
ble.    Then 
Spit  them  like   larks  for  aught  I  care. 

Besides, 
When  Henry  broke  the  carcass  of  your 

church 
To   pieces,    there   were   many   wolves 

among  you 
Who  dragg'd  the    scatter'd  limbs  into 

their  den. 
The  Pope  would  have  you  make  them 

render  these  ; 
So  would  your  cousin.  Cardinal  Pole  ; 

ill  counsel ! 
These   let  them  keep  at  present;  stir 

not  yet 
This  matter  of  the   Church  lands.     At 

his  coming 
YoiT  star  will  rise. 

Mary.  My  star  !   a  baleful  one. 

I  see  but  the  black  night,  and  hear  the 

wolf. 
What  star  ? 
Renard.      Your    star    will   be   your 

princely  son, 
Heir  of  this  England  and  the  Nether- 
lands! 
And  if  your  wolf  the  while  should  howl 

for  more 
We'll  dust  him  from  a  bag  of  Spanish 

gold. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


551 


JS 


I  do  believe,  I  have  dusted  some  al- 
ready, 
That,  soon  or  late,  your  parliament  is 
ours. 
Mary.  Why  do  they  talk  so  foully 
of  your  Prince, 
Renard  ?    ^ 
Renard.     The  lot  of  princes.     To 

sit  high 
S  to  be  lied  about. 
Mary.  They  call  him  cold, 

Haughty,  ay,  worse. 

Renard.      Why,    doubtless,     Philip 
shows 
Some  of  the  bearing  of  your  blue  blood 

—still 
All   within   measure — nay,  it  well  be- 
comes him. 
Mary.  Hath  he  the  large  ability  of 

his  father .'' 
Renard.  Nay,  some  believe  that   he 

will  go  beyond  him. 
Mary.  Is  this  like  him  ? 
Renard.     Ay,    somewhat;  but  your 
Philip 
Is  the  most  princelike  Prince  beneath 

the  sun. 
This  is  a  daub  to  Philip. 
Mary.  Of  a  pure  life  "i 

Renard.     As  an  angel  among  angels. 
Yea,  by  Heaven, 
The  text — Your  Highness  knows  it, 

"Whosoever 
Looketh  after  a  woman,"   would  not 

graze 
The  Prince  of  Spain.     You  are  happy 

in  him  there, 
Chaste  as  your  Grace  ! 
Mary.         I  am  happy  in  him  there, 
Renard.     And  would  be  altogether 
happy,  Madam, 
So  that  your  sister  were  but  look'd  to 

closer. 
You  have  sent  her  from  the  court,  but 

then  she  goes, 
I  warrant,  not  to  hear  the  nightingales, 
But  hatch   you  some  new  treason   in 
the  woods. 
Mary.     We   have  our  spies  abroad 
to  catch  her  tripping. 
And  then  if  caught,  to  the  Tower. 


Renard.         The  Tower  !  the  block. 
The   word  has  turned  your  Highness 

pale  ;  the  thing 
Was  no  such  scarecrow  in  your  father's 

time. 
I  have  heard,  the  tongue  yet  quiver'd 

with  the  jest 
When  the  head  leapt — so  common  !    I 

do  think 
To  save  your  crown  that  it  must  come 

to  this. 
Mary.     I  love  her  not,  but   all   the 

people  love  her, 
And  would  not  have  her  even  to  the 

Tower. 
Renard.      Not  yet ;    but    your  old 

Traitors  of  the  Tower — 
Why,  when  you  put  Northumberland 

to  death,  [all. 

The  sentence  having  past  upon  them 
Spared    you    the   Duke    of    Suffolk, 

Guildford  Dudley, 
Ev'n  that  young  girl  who  dared  to  wear 

your  crown  .-* 
Alary.     Dared,   no,   not   that ;    the 

child  obey'd  her  father. 
Spite  of  her  tears  her  father  forced  it 

on  her. 
Renard.     Good   Madam,   when  the 

Roman  wish'd  to  reign. 
He  slew  not  him  alone  who  wore  the 

purple, 
But  his  assessor  in  the   throne,  per- 
chance 
A  child  more  innocent  than  Lady  Jane. 
Mary.     I    am   English    Queen,   not 

Roman  Emperor. 
Renard.     Yet  too   much  mercy  is  a 

want  of  mercy. 
And  wastes  more  life.     Stamp  out  the 

fire,  or  this 
Will  smoulder  and  re-fUme,  and  burn 

the  throne 
Where  you  should  sit  with  Philip  :  he 

will  not  come 
Till  she  be  gone. 

Mary.  Indeed,  if   that  were  true — 
But  I  must  say  farewell.     I   am  some- 
what faint 
With  our  long  talk.     Tho'  Queen,  I  am 

not  Queen 


55- 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Of  mine  own  heart,  which  every  now 

and  then 
Beats  me   half  dead :    yet  stay,   this 

golden  chain — 
My  father  on  a  birihday  gave  it  me. 
And  I  have  broken  with  my  father — 

take 
And  wear  it  as  memorial  of  a  morning 
Which  found  me  full  of  foolish  doubts, 

and  leaves  me 
As  hopeful. 
Renard  [aside).     Whew — ^the  folly  of 

all  follies 
Is  to    be    love-sick    for    a    shadow. 

[A/oud)  Madam, 
This   chains   me  to  your   service,  not 

with  gold, 
But  dearest  links  of  love.     Farewell, 

and  trust  me, 
Philip  is  yours.  [Exif. 

Mary.     Mine — but  not  yet  all  mine. 

Enter  Usher. 

Usher.  Your  Council  is  in  Session, 

please  your  Majesty. 
Mary.     Sir,   let   them   sit.     I   must 

have  time  to  breathe. 
No,  say   I   come.     {Exit  UsHER.)     I 

won  by  boldness  once. 
The  Emperor  counsell'd  me  to  fly  to 

Flanders. 
I  would  not  J  but  a   hundred  miles  I 

rode. 
Sent  out  my  letters,  call'd  my  friends 

together. 
Struck  home  and  won. 
And  when  the    Council    would    not 

crown  me — thought 
To  bind  me  first  by  oaths  I  could  not 

keep. 
And  keep  with  Christ  and  conscience 

— was  it  boldness 
Or  weakness  that  won  there  ?    When 

I  their  Queen, 
Cast  myself  down  upon  my  knees  be- 
fore them, 
And  those  hard  men  brake  into  woman 

tears, 
Ev'n  Gnrdincr,  all  amazed,  and  in  that 

])assion 
Gave  uic  my  crown. 


Enter  ALICE. 

Girl,  hast  thou  ever  heard 
Slanaers  against  Prince  Philip  in   our 
Court.? 
Alice.      What    slanders."*      I,     your 

Grace ;  no,  never. 
Mary.  N^ing  t 

Alice.  Never,  your  Grace. 
Mary.     See    that  you  neither  hear 

them  nor  repeat ! 
Alice   {aside).     Good   Lord  !    but    I 
have  heard  a  thousand  such. 
Ay,   and    repeated    them   as   often — 

mum ! 
Why  comes  that  old  fox-Fleming  back 
again  } 

Ejtter  Renard. 

Renard.     Madam,  I  scarce  had  left 
your  Grace's  presence 
Before  I  chanced  upon  the  messenger 
Who  brings  that  letter  which  we  waited 

for — 
The  formal  offer  of  Prince   Philip's 

hand. 
It  craves  an  instant  answer.  Ay  or  No.> 
Mary.  An  instant,  Ay  or  No!   the 
Council  sits. 
Give  it  me  quick. 
*  Alice    {stepping  before  her).      Your 
Highness  is  all  trembling. 
Mary.     Make  way. 

\_Exit  into  the  Council  Chamber. 
Alice.     O,   Master   Renard,   Master 
Renard, 
If  you  have  falsely  painted  your  fine 

Prince ; 
Praised,  where  you  should  have  blamed 

him,  I  pray  God 
No  woman    ever    love   you.   Master 

Renard. 
It  breaks  my  heart  to  hear  her  moan  at 

night 
As  tho'  the  nightmare  never  left   her 
bed. 
Renard.  My  pretty  maiden,  tell  me, 
did  you  ever 
Sigh  for  a  l^eard  ? 

Alice.  That's  not  a  prettv  question. 
Renard.  Not  prettily  put.?     I  mean 
my  pretty-Tuaiden, 


QUEEN  MARY. 


553 


A  pretty  man  for  such  a  pretty  maiden. 
Alice.     My   Lord   of    Devon    is   a 
pretty  man. 
I  hate  him.     Well,  but  if  I  have,  what 
then? 
Renard.     Then,  pretty  maiden,  you 
should  know  that  whether 
A  wind  be  warm  or  cold,  it  serves  to 

fan 
A  kindled  fire. 
Alice.  According  to  the  song. 

"  His  friends  would  praise  him,  I  believed  'em 
His  foes  would  blame  him,  and  I  scorned 
'em. 
His  friends — as  Angels  I  received  'em. 
His  foes— the  Devil  had  suborn'd  'em." 

Renard.     Peace,  pretty  maiden. 
I   hear   them   stirring   in  the  Council 

Chamber- 
Lord    Paget's    "Ay"    is    sure — who 

else  "i  and  yet. 
They  are  all  too  much  at  odds  to  close 

at  once 
In  one  full  throated  No  !     Her  High- 

lice.  How  deathly  pale ! — a  chair, 
your  Highness. 

\B ringing  one  to  the  Queen. 
Renard.  Madam, 

The  Council  ? 
Mary    Ay  I  My  Philip  is  all  mine. 
\Sinks  into  a  chair,  half  fainting. 


Enter  Mary. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE    L— ALLTNGTON 
CASTLE. 


I^r  from  Carew  or  the  Duke 
Of  Suffolk, .  and  till  then  I  should  not 

move. 
The    Duke    hath  gone  to  Leicester; 

Carew  stirs 
In  Devon :  that  fine  porcelain  Courte- 

nay, 
Save  that  he  fears  he  might  be  crack'd 

in  using. 


(I  have  known  a  semi-madman  in  my 

time 
So   fancy-ridd'n)  should  be  in  Devon 

too. 

Enter  WiLLlAM. 

News  abroad,  William  } 

William.  None  so  new,  Sir  Thomas, 
and  none  so  old,  Sir  Thomas.  No 
new  news  that  Philip  comes  to  wed 
Mary,  no  old  news  that  all  men  hate  it. 
Old  Sir  Thomas  would  have  hated  it. 
The  bells  are  ringing  at  Maidstone. 
Doesn't  your  worship  hear  .-^ 

Wyatt.  Ay,  for  the  Saints  are  come 

to  reign  again. 
Most  like  it  is  a  Saint's-day.    There's 

no  call 
As  yet  for  me ;  so  in  this  pause,  be- 
fore 
The  mine  be  fired,   it  were  a  pious 

work 
To   string  my  father's    sonnets,   left 

about 
Like  loosely-scatter'd  jewels,  in   fair 

order. 
And  head  them  with  a  lamer  rhyme  of 

mine, 
To  grace  his  memory. 

William.  Ay,  why  not.  Sir  Thomas  .^ 
He  was  a  fine  courtier,  he ;  Queen 
Anne  loved  him.  All  the  women 
loved  him.  I  loved  him,  I  was  in 
Spain  with  him.  I  couldn't  eat  in 
Spain,  I  couldn't  sleep  in  Spain.  I 
hate  Spain,  Sir  Thomas. 

Wyatt.  But  thou  couldst  drink  in 
Spain  if  I  remember. 

William.  Sir  Thomas,  we  may  grant 
the  wine.  Old  Sir  Thomas  always 
granted  the  wine. 

Wyatt.  Hand  me  the  casket  with  my 
father's  sonnets. 

William.  Ay — sonnets — a  tine  cour- 
tier of  the  old  Court,  old  Sir  Thomas. 

\Exit. 
Wyatt.  Courtier  of  many  courts,  he 

loved  the  more 
His   own  gray  towers,  plain  life   and 

letter'd  peace. 
To  read  and  rhyme  in  solitary  fields, 


554 


QUEEN  MARY. 


The  lark  above,  the  nightingale  below, 
And  answer  them  in  song.     The  Sire 

begets 
Not  half   his   likeness   in  the   son.     I 

fail 
Where  he  was  fullest :  yet — to  write  it 

down.  \^He  wi'ites. 

Re-enter  WiLLiAlvi. 

William.  There  is  news,  there  is 
news,  and  no  call  for  sonnet-sorting 
now,  nor  for  sonnet-making  either,  but 
ten  thousand  men  on  Penenden  Heath 
all  calling  after  your  worship,  and 
your  worship's  name  heard  into  Maid- 
stone market,  and  your  worship  the 
first  man  in  Kent  and  Christendom, 
for  the  world's  up,  and  your  worship 
a-top  of  it. 

Wyatt.    Inverted    .^sop — mountain 
out  of  mouse. 
Say   for   ten  thousand   ten — and   pot- 
house knaves, 
Brain-dizzied  with  a  draught  of  morn- 
ing ale. 

Enter  Antony  Knyvett. 

William.  Here's  Antony  Knyvett. 
Knyvett.      Look  you.  Master  Wyatt, 
Tear  up  that  woman's  work  there. 

Wyait.  No ;  not  these. 

Dumb  children  of  my  father,  that  will 

speak 
When  I  and  thou  and  all  rebellions  lie 
Dead  bodies  without  voice.     Song  flies, 

you  know, 
For  ages. 

Knyvett.  Tut,  your  sonnet's  a  flying 
ant, 
Wing'd  for  a  moment. 

Wyatt.        Well,  for  mine  own  work, 

[  Tearing  the  paper. 

It  lies  there  in  six  pieces  at  your  feet ; 

For  all  that  I  can   carry  it  in  my  head. 

Knyvett.  If  you  can  carry  your  head 

upon  your  shoulders. 
Wyatt.  I  fear  you  come  to  carry  it 
off  my  shoulders. 
And  sonnet-making's  safer. 
Knyvett.  Why,  good  Lord, 


Write  you  as  many  sonnets  as  you  will. 
Ay,  but  not  now ;  what,  have  you  eyes, 

ears,  brains  .-* 
This  Philip  and  the  black-faced  swarms 

of  Spain, 
The  hardest,  cruellest  people   in  the 

world. 
Come  locusting  upon  us,  eat  us  up. 
Confiscate     lands,     goods,     money  — 

Wyatt,  Wyatt. 
Wake,  or  the  stout  old  island  will  be- 
come 
A  rotten  limb  of  Spain.     They  roar 

for  you 
On   Penenden   Heath,  a   thousand   of 

them — more — 
All  arm'd,  waiting  a  leader ;  there's  no 

glory 
Like  his  who  saves  his  country:  and 

you  sit 
Sing-songing  here;    but,   if  I'm    any 

judge, 
By  God,   you    are    as  poor    a  poet, 

Wyatt, 
As  a  good  soldier. 

Wyatt.  You  as  poor  a  critic 

As  an  honest  friend  •  you  stroke  me 

on  one  cheek. 
Buffet  the  other.     Come,  you  bluster, 

Antony ! 
You   know  I  know  all   this.     I   must 

not  move 
Until   I   hear  from    Carew    and    the 

Dul<te. 
I  fear  the  mine   is  fired   before   the 

time. 
Knyz'ett  {showing  a  paper).  But  here's 

some  Hebrew.     Faith,  I  half  for- 
got it. 
Look  ;  can  you  make  it  English  ?     A 

strange  youth 
Suddenly  thrust  it  on   me,  whisper'd. 

"  Wyatt," 
And  whisking  round  a  corner,  show'd 

his  back 
Before  I  read  his  face. 

Wyatt.  Ha!  Courtenay's  cipher. 
[Reads.l  "Sir  Peter  Carew  fled  to 
France  :  it  is  thought  the  Duke  will  be 
taken.  I  am  with  you  still ;  but  for 
appearance'  sake,  stay  with  the  Queen, 


Gardiner  knows,  but  the  Council  are 
all  at  odds,  and  the  Queen  hath  no 
force  for  resistance.  Move,  if  you 
move,  at  once." 

Is   Peter  Carew   fled.?    Is  the  Duke 

taken  ? 
Down   scabbard,  and  out  sword !  and 

let  Rebellion 
Roar  till  throne  rock,  and  crown  fall. 

No  ;  not  that ; 
But  we  will  teach  Queen  Mary  how  to 

reign. 
Who  are  those  that  shout  below  there  ? 
Knyvett.  Why,  some  fifty 

That    follow'd    me    from     Penenden 

Heath  in  hope 
To  hear  you  speak. 

Wyatt.    Open  the  window,  Knyvett ; 
The  mine  is  fired,  and  I  will  speak  to 

them. 

Men  of  Kent ;  England  of  England ; 
you  that  nave  kept  your  old  customs 
upright,  while  all  the  rest  of  England 
bow'd  theirs  to  the  Norman,  the  cause 
that  hath  brought  us  together  is  not 
the  cause  of  a  county  or  a  shire,  but  of 
this  England,  in  whose  crown  our  Kent 
is  the  fairest  jewel.  Philip  shall  not 
wed  Mary ;  and  ye  have  called  me  to 
be  your  leader.  I  know  Spain.  I 
have  been  there  with  my  father ; 
have  seen  them  in  their  own  land ; 
have  marked  the  haughtiness  of  their 
nobles;  the  cruelty  of  their  priests. 
If  this  man  marry  our  Queen,  however 
the  Council  and  the  Commons  may 
fence  round  his  power  with  restric- 
tion, he  will  be  King,  King  of  Eng- 
land, my  masters  ;  and  the  Queen,  and 
the  laws,  and  the  people,  his  slaves. 
What!  shall  we  have  Spain  on  the 
throne  and  in  the  parliament;  Spain 
in  the  pulpit  and  on  the  law-bench  ; 
Spain  in  all  the  great  offices  of  state ; 
Spain  in  our  ships,  in  our  forts,  in  our 
houses,  in  our  beds  .? 

Crowd.  No  !  no  !  no  Spain. 

William.  No   Spain   in   our  beds — 
^hat  were  worse  than  all.     I  have  been 


there   with   old  Sir  Thomas,  and   the 
beds  I  know.     I  hate  Spain. 

A  Peasaitt.  But,  Sir  Thomas,  must 
we  levy  war  against  the  Queen's 
Grace  ? 

Wyatt.  No,  my  friend ;  war  for  the 
Queen's  Grace — to  save  her  from  her- 
self and  Philip  —  war  against  Spain. 
And  think  not  we  shall  be  alone — thou- 
sands will  flock  to  us.  The  Council, 
the  Court  itself,  is  on  our  side.  The 
Lord  Chancellor  himself  is  on  our  side. 
The  King  of  France  is  with  us;  the  King 
of  Denmark  is  with  us ;  the  world  is 
with  us — war  against  Spain  !  And  if 
we  move  not  now,  yet  it  will  be  known 
that  we  have  moved;  and  if  Philip 
come  to  be  King,  O  my  God !  the 
rope,  the  rack,  the  thumb-screw,  the 
stake,  the  fire.  If  we  move  not  now, 
Spain  moves,  bribes  our  nobles  with 
her  gold,  and  creeps,  creeps  snake-like 
about  our  legs  till  we  cannot  move  at 
all ;  and  ye  know,  my  masters,  that 
wherever  Spain  hath  ruled  she  hath 
wither'd  all  beneath  her.  Look  at  the 
New  World — a  paradise  made  hell ; 
the  red  man,  that  good  helpless  crea- 
ture, starv'd,  maim'd,  flogg'd,  flay'd, 
burn'd,  boil'd,  buried  alive,  worried  by 
dogs;  and  here,  nearer  home,  the 
Netherlands,  Sicily,  Naples,  Lom- 
bardy.  I  say  no  more — only  this,  their 
lot  is  yours.  Forward  to  London  with 
me  !  forward  to  London  !  If  ye  love 
your  liberties  or  your  skins,  forward 
to  London ! 

Crowd.    Forward    to    London!     A 

Wyatt !  a  Wyatt ! 
Wyatt.    But  first   to   Rochester,   to 

take  the  guns 
From  out  the  vessels  lying  in  the  river- 
Then  on. 

A  Peasant.     Ay,  but  I  fear  we  be  too 

few,  Sir  Thomas. 
Wyatt.  Not  many  yet.      The  world 

as  yet,  my  friend. 
Is  not   half-waked  ;   but   every  parish 

tower 
Shall  clang  and  clash   alarum  as  w« 

pass, 


55^ 


QUEEN  MARY, 


And  pour  along  the  land,  and  svvoll'n 

and  fed 
With  indraughts  and  side-currents,  in 

full  force 
Roll  upon  London. 

Cr(md.    A   Wyatt !  a    Wyatt !    For- 
ward ! 
Knvvett.  Wyatt,  shall  we   proclaim 

Elizabeth  ? 
Wyatt.  I'll  think  upon  it,  Knyvett. 
Knyvett.  Or  Lady  Jane  ? 

Wyatt.  No,  poor  soul ;  no. 
Ah,  gray  old  castle  of  Allington,  green 

field 
Beside  the  brimming  Medway,  it  may 

chance 
That   I    shall  never    look   upon   you 
more. 
Knyvett.  Come,  now,  you're  sonnet- 
ting  again. 
Wyatt.  Not  I. 

I'll  have  my  head  set  higher  in  the 

state ; 
Or— if  the  Lord  God  will  it — on  the 
stake.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IL— GUILDHALL. 

Sir  Thomas  White  (The  Lord 
Mayor),  Lord  William  Howard, 
Sir  Ralph  Bagenhall,  Alder- 
men and  Citizens. 

White.  I    trust    the    Queen    comes 
^  hither  with  her  Guards. 
Howard.  Ay,  all  in  arms. 

{Several  of  the  Citizens  move  has- 
tily out  of  the  hall. 
Why  do  they  hurry  out  there  ? 
White.  My  Lord,  cut  out  the  rotten 
from  your  apple, 
Your  apple  eats  the  better.     Let  them 

go. 
They  go  like  those  old  Pharisees    in 

John 
Convicted  by  their  conscience,  arrant 

cowards. 
Or  tamperers  with  that  treason  out  of 

Kent. 
When  will  her  Grace  be  here  ? 
Howard.  In  some  few  minutes. 


She  will  address  your  guilds  and  com. 

panies. 
I  have  striven  in  vain  to  raise  a  man 

for  her. 
But  help  her  in  this  exigency,  make 
Your  city  loyal,  and  be  the  mightiest 

man 
This  day  in  England. 

White.  I  am  Thomas  White. 

Few  things  have  fail'd  to  which  I  set 

my  will. 
I  do  my  most  and  best. 

Howard.  You  know  that  after 

The    Captain    Brett,    who   went   with 

your  train  bands 
To  fight  with  Wyatt,  had  gone  over  to 

him 
With   all  his  men,  the  Queen  in  that 

distress  [traitor, 

I  Sent  Cornwallis  and  Hastings  to  the 

Feigning  to  treat  with  him  about  her 

marriage — 
Know  too  what  Wyatt  said. 

White.  He'd  sooner  be, 

While   this    same    marriage   question 

was  being  argued, 
Trusted   than   trust — the   scoundrel — 

and  demanded 
Possession    of    her    person  .and  the 

Tower. 
Howard.    And     four     of  her    poor 

Council  too,  my  Lord, 
As  hostages. 

White.  I  know  it.     What  do  and  say 
Your  Council  at  this  hour  } 

Howard.  I  will  trust  you. 

We  fling  ourselves  on  you,  my  Lord. 

The  Council, 
The  parliament  as  well,  are  troubled 

waters ; 
And  yet  like  waters  of  the  fen  they 

know  not 
Which  way  to  flow.     All  hangs  on  her 

address. 
And  upon  you,  Lord  Mayor. 

White.  How  look'd  the  city 

When  now  you  past  it  .^     Quiet  ? 

Howard.  Like  our  Council, 

You?  city  is  divided.     As  we  past, 
Some   hail'd,  some   hiss'd  us.     Therf 

were  citizens 


QUEEN  MARY. 


557 


Stood  each  before  his  shut-up  booth, 

and  look'd 
As  grim  and  grave  as  from  a  funeral. 
And  here  a  knot  of  ruffians  all  in  rags, 
With  execrating  execrable  eyes, 
Glared   at   the   citizen.      Here   was   a 

young  mother. 
Her   face   on  flame,  her  red  hair  all 

blown  back, 
She  shrilling  "  Wyatt,"  while  the  boy 

she  held 
Mimick'd  and  piped  her  "  Wyatt,"  as 

red  as  she 
In  hair  and  cheek ;  and  almost  elbow- 
ing her, 
So  close  they  stood,  another,  mute  as 

death. 
And  white  as  her  own  milk;  her  babe 

in  arms 
Had  felt  the  faltering  of  his  mother's 

heart, 
And  look'd  as  bloodless.   Here  a  pious 

Catholic, 
Mumbling  and  mixing  up  in  his  scared 

prayers 
Heaven  and  earth's  Maries ;  over  his 

bow'd  shoulder 
Scowl 'd   that  world-hated   and  world- 
hating  beast, 
A   haggard   Anabaptist.      Many   such 

groups. 
The  names  of  Wyatt,  Elizabeth,  Cour- 

tenay, 
Nay  the  Queen's  right  to  reign — 'fore 

God,  the  rogues — 
Were  freely  buzz'd  among  them.     So 

I  say 
Your  city  is  divided,  and  I  fear 
One  scruple,  this  or  that  way,  of  suc- 
cess 
Would    turn    it  thither.      Wherefore 

now  the  Queen 
In   this   low   pulse   and   palsy   of   the 

state, 
B.ide  me  to  tell  you  that  she  counts  on 

you 
And  on  myself  as  her  two  hands ;  on 

you, 
In  your  own  city,  as  her  right,  my 

J,ord, 
For  you  are  loyal. 


White.  Am  I  Thomas  White  ? 

One  word  before  she  comes.      Eliza- 
beth— 

Her  name  is  much  abused  among  these 
traitors. 

Where  is  she  "i     She  is  loved  by  all  of 
us. 

I  scarce  have  heart  to  mingle  in  this 
matter. 

If  she  should  be  mishandled  .? 

Howard.  No ;  she  shall  not. 

The  Queen  has  written  her  word  to 
come  to  court. 

Methought  I  smelt  out  Renard  in  the 
letter, 

And  fearing  for  her,  sent  a  secret  mis- 
sive, 

Which  told  her  to  be  sick.     Happily 
or  not. 

It  found  her  sick  indeed. 

White.  God  send  her  well ; 

Here  comes  her  Royal  Grace. 

Enter  Guards,  Mary  and  Gardiner. 
Sir  Thomas  White  leads  her  to  a 
raised  seat  on  the  dais. 

White.  I,  the  Lord  Mayor,  and  these 

our  companies 
And  guilds  of  London,  gathered  here, 

beseech 
Your  Highness  to  accept  our  lowliest 

thanks 
For  your  most  princely  presence :  and 

we  pray 
That  we,  your  true  and  loyal  citizens, 
From  your  own  royal  lips,  at  once  may 

know 
The  wherefore  of  this  coming,  and  so 

learn 
Your  royal  will,  and  do  it. — I,  Lord 

Mayor 
Of  London,  and  our  Guilds  and  Com' 

panics. 
Mary.    In  mine  own  person   am   I 

come  to  you, 
To   tell  ye   what  indeed  ye  see  and 

know, 
How   traitorously  these  rebels  out  of 

Kent 
Have  made  strong  head  against  oar< 

selves  and  you. 


558 


QUEEN  MARY. 


They  would    not    have    me  wed  the 

Prince  of  Spain ; 
That  was  their  pretext — so  they  spake 

at  first— 
But  we  sent  divers  of  our  Council  to 

them, 
And  by  their  answers  to  the  question 

ask'd, 
It   doth   appear  this  marriage   is   the 

least 
Of  all  their  quarrel. 
They    have    betrayed   the  treason  of 

their  hearts : 
Seek  to  possess  our  person,  hold  our 

Tower, 
Place  and  displace  our  councillors,  and 

use 
Both  us  and  them  according  as  they 

will. 
Now  what  am  I  ye  know  right  well — 

your  Queen  ; 
To  whom,  when  I  was  wedded  to  the 

realm 
And  the  realm's  laws  (the  spousal  ring 

whereof. 
Not  ever  to  be  laid  aside,  I  wear 
Upon  this  finger),  ye  did  promise  full 
Allegiance  and  obedience  to  the  death. 
Ye  know  my  father  was  the  rightful 

heir 
Of  England,  and  his  right  came  down 

to  me. 
Corroborate   by  your  acts   of   Parlia- 
ment: 
And   as  ye   were    most    loving    unto 

him, 
So  doubtless  will  ye  show  yourselves 

to  me. 
AVherefore,  ye  will  not  brook  that  any 

one 
Should  seize  our  person,  occupy  our 

state. 
More  specially  a  traitor  so  presump- 
tuous 
As  this  same  Wyatt,  who  hath  tam- 

per'd  with 
A  public  ignorance,  and,  under  color 
Of   such   a   cause   as   hath   no    color, 

seeks 
To  bend  the  laws  to  his  own  will,  and 

yield 


Full  scope  to  persons  rascal  and  for- 
lorn, 

To  make  free  spoil  and  havoc  of  your 
goods. 

Now  as  your  Prince,  I  say, 

I,  that  was  never  mother,  cannot  tell 

How  mothers  love  their  children  ;  yet,- 
methinks, 

A  prince  as  naturally  may  love  his 
people 

As  these  their  children;  and  be  sure 
your  Queen 

So  loves  you,  and  so  loving,  needs 
must  deem 

This  love  by  you  return'd  as  heartily; 

And  thro*  this  common  knot  and  bond 
of  love, 

Doubt  not  they  will  be  speedily  over- 
thrown. 

As  to  this  marriage,  ye  shall  uuder- 
stand 

We  made  thereto  no  treaty  of  our- 
selves, [vised 

And    set    no  foot  theretoward   unad- 

Of  all  our  Privy  CouncU ;  further- 
more, 

This  marriage  had  the  assent  of  those 
to  whom 

The  king,  my  father,  did  commit  his 
trust ; 

Who  not  alone  esteemed  it  honorable, 

But  for  the  wealth  and  glory  of  our 
realm. 

And  all  our  loving  subjects,  most  ex- 
pedient. 

As  to  myself, 

I  am  not  so  set  on  wedlock  as  to 
choose 

But  where  I  list,  nor  yet  so  amorous 

That  I  must  needs  be  husbanded;  I 
thank  God, 

I  have  lived  a  virgin,  and  I  noway 
doubt 

But  that,  with  God's  grace.  I  can  live 
so  still. 

Yet  if  it  might  please  God  that  I  should 
leave 

Some  fruit  of  mine  own  body  after 
me. 

To  be  your  king,  ye  would  rejoice 
thereat, 


QUEEN  MARY. 


559 


And  it   would  be  your  comfort,  as  I 
trust ; 

And  truly,  if  I  either  thought  or  knew 

This  marriage    should  bring  loss   or 
danger  to  you, 

My  subjects,  or  impair  in  any  way 

This  royal  state  of  England,  I  would 
never 

Consent  thereto,  nor  marry  while   I 
live; 

Moreover,  if  this  marriage  should  not 
seem, 

Before  our  own  high  Court  of  Parlia- 
ment, 

To  be  of  rich  advantage  to  our  realm, 

We  will  refrain,  and  not  alone  from 
this. 

Likewise  from  any  other,  out  of  which 

Looms  the  least  chance  of  peril  to  our 
realm. 

"Wherefore  be  bold,  and  with  your  law- 
ful Prince 

Stand  fast  against  our  enemies  and 
yours. 

And  fear  them  not.     I  fear  them  not. 
My  Lord, 

I  leave  Lord  William  Howard  in  your 
city, 

To  guard  and  keep  you  whole  and  safe 
from  all 

The  spoil   and  sackage   aim'd  at  by 
these  rebels, 

Who  mouth  and    foam    against    the 
Prince  of  Spain. 
Voices.  Long  live  Queen  Mary  ! 

Down  with  Wvatt ! 

The  Queen  ! 
White.  Three  voices  from  our  guilds 
and  companies  ! 

You  are  shy  and  proud  like   English- 
men, my  masters, 

And  will  not  trust  your  voices.     Un- 
derstand : 
Your  lawful  Prince  hath  come  to  cast 
herself 

On  loyal  hearts  and  bosoms,  hoped  to 

fall 
Into  the  widespread  arms  of  fealty, 
And  finds  you  statues.     Speak  at  once 

— and  all  \ 
For  whom? 


Our  sovereign   Lady  by  King  Harry's 
will ; 

The  Queen  of  England — or  the  Kent- 
ish Squire  ? 

I   know   you   loyal.      Speak !    in   the 
name  of  God  ! 

The  Queen  of  England  or  the  rabble 
of  Kent .? 

The  reeking  dungfork  master  of  the 
mace ! 

Your  havings  wasted  by  the  scythe  and 
spade — 

Your  rights   and    charters    hobnail'd 
into  slush — 

Your  houses  fired — your  gutters  bub- 
bling blood — 
Acclamation.  No!  No!  The  Queen  1 

the  Queen ! 
White.  Your  Highness  hears 

This  burst  and  bass  of  loyal  harmony, 

And  how  we  each  and  all  of  us  ab- 
hor [volt 

The  venomous,   bestial,    devilish    re- 

Of    Thomas   Wyatt.       Hear   us  now 
make  oath 

To  raise   your   Highness   thirty  thou- 
sand men, 

And  arm  and  strike  as  with  one  hand, 
and  brush 

This  Wyatt  from  our  shoulders,  like  a 
flea 

That  might  have  leapt  upon  us  una- 
wares. 

Swear  with  me,  noble  fellow-citizens, 
all. 

With  all  your  trades,  and  guilds,  and 
companies. 
Citizens.  W^e  swear ! 
Mary.  We  thank  your  Lordship  and 
your  loyal  city, 

\Exit  Mary  attended. 
White.  I  trust  this  day,  thro'  God,  I 

have  saved  the  crown. 
First  Alderman.  Ay,  so  my  Lord  ol 
Pembroke  in  command 

Of  all  her  force  be  safe ;  but  there  are 
doubts. 
Second  Alderman.    I  hear  that  Gar- 
diner, coming  with  the  Queen, 

And  meeting  Pembroke,  bent  to  hia 
saddle-bow, 


56o 


QUEEN  MARY. 


As  if  to  win  the  man   by   flattering 

him. 
Is  he  so  safe  to  fight  upon  her  side  ? 
First  Alderman.   If  not,  there's  no 

man  safe. 
White.  Yes,  Thomas  White. 

1  am  safe  enough ;  no  man  need  flatter 

me. 
Second   Alderman.     Nay,    no    man 

need  ;     but    did    you    mark     our 

Queen  ? 
The  color  freely  play'd  into  her  face, 
And  the  half  sight  which  makes  her 

look  so  stern, 
Seem'd  thro'  that  dim  dilated  world  of 

hers,  [her 

To  read  our  faces ,  1  have  never  seen 
So  queenly  or  so  goodly. 

White..  Courage,  sir. 

That  makes  or  man   or  woman  look 

their  goodliest. 
Die  like  the  torn  fox  dumb^  but  never 

whine 
Like  that  poor  heart,  Northumberland, 

at  the  block. 
IBagenhall.    The  man  had  children, 

and  he  whined  for  those. 
Methinks  most  men    are    but    poor- 
hearted,  else 
Should  we  so  doat  on  courage,  were  it 

commoner  .>* 
The  Queen  stands  up,  and  speaks  for 

her  own  self ; 
And  all  men  cry,  she  is  queenly,  she  is 

goodly. 
Yet  she's  no  goodlier;   tho'  my  Lord 

Mayor  here, 
By  his  own  rule,  he  hath  been  so  bold 

to-day, 
Should  look  more  goodly  than  the  rest 

of  us 
White   Goodly  ?  I  feel  most  goodly 

heart  and  hand. 
And  strong  to  throw  ten  Wyatts  and 

all  Kent. 
Ha!  ha !  sir  ;  but  you  jest;  I  love  it  : 

a  jest 
In  time   of  danger  shows   the   pulses 

even. 
Be  merry!  yet,  Sir   Ralph,  you   look 

but  sad. 


I   dare    avouch   you'd    stand   up  foi 

yourself, 
Tho'   all    the   world   should   bay   like 

winter  wolves. 
Bagenhall.     Who  knows  ?  the  man 

is  proven  by  the  hour. 
White.  The  man    should  make  the 

hour,  not  this  the  man  ; 
And    Thomas    White  will  prove   this 

Thomas  Wyatt, 
And   he  will   prove   an  Iden  to  this 

Cade, 
And  he  will  play  the  Walworth  to  this 

Wat; 
Come,    sirs,   we    prate;    hence    all  — 

gather  your  men — 
Myself  must  bustle,     Wyatt  comes  to 

Southwark ; 
I'll  have  the  drawbridge  hewn  into  the 

Thames, 
And  see  the  citizen  arm'd.     Good  day; 

good  day.  ^Exit  White. 

Bagenhall'.    One   of  much    outdoor 

bluster. 
Howard.         For  all  that, 
Most  honest,  brave,   and  skilful;  and 

his  wealth 
A  fountain  of  perennial  alms — his  fault 
So   thoroughly  to  believe  in  his   own 

self. 
Bagenhall.  Yet  thoroughly  to  believe 

in  one's  own  self. 
So  one's  own  self  be  thorough,  were 

to  do 
Great  things,  my  lord. 

Howard.  It  may  be. 

Bagenhall.  I  have  heard 

One  of  your  council  fleer  and  jeer  at 

him. 
Howard.  The  nursery-cocker'd  child 

will  jeer  at  aught 
That  may  seem  strange    beyond  his 

nursery. 
The  statesman  that  shall  jeer  and  fleer 

at  men, 
Makes  enemies  for  himself  and  for  his 

king; 
And  if  he  jeer  not  seeing  the  true  man 
Behind  his  folly,  he  is  thrice  the  fool; 
And  if  he  see  the  man  and  still  will 

jeer, 


QUEEN  MARY. 


5Cr\ 


He  is  child  and  fool,  and  traitor  to  the 

State. 
Who  is  he  ?    Let  me  shun  him. 

Bagenhall.  Nay,  my  Lord, 

He  is  damn'd  enough  already. 

Howard.  I  must  set 

The  guard  at  Ludgate.     P'are  you  well, 

Sir  Ralph. 

Bagenhall.  "  Who  knows  ?  "     I  am 

for  England.     But  who  knows. 

That  knows  the  Queen,  the  Spaniard, 

and  the  Pope, 
Whether    I    be    for    Wyatt,    or  the 
Queen  ?  [Exetmt, 


SCENE  in.— LONDON   BRIDGE. 

Enler    Sir    Thomas     Wyati     and 
Brett. 

Wyatt     Brett,   when   the   Duke    of 

Norfolk  moved  against  us 
Thou  criedst  "  a  Wyatt,"  and  flying  to 

our  side 
Left  his  all  bare,  for  which  I  love  thee, 

Brett, 
Have  for  thine  asking  aught  that  I  can 

give. 
For  thro'  thine  help  we  are  come  to 

London  Bridge  •, 
But  how  to  cross  it  balks  me.     I  fear 

we  cannot. 
Brett.    Nay,   hardly,   save   by  boat, 

swimming,  or  wings. 
Wyatt.  Last  night  I  climb'd  into  the 

gate -house,  Brett, 
.And  scared  the  gray  old  porter  and  his 

wife. 
And  then  I  crept  along  the  gloom  and 

saw 
They  had  hewn  the  drawbridge  down 

into  the  river. 
It  roll'd  as  black  as  death;  and  that 

same  tide 
Which,    coming     with     our     coming, 

seem'dPto  smile 
An,d  sparkle  like  our  fortune  as  thou 

saidst. 
Ran  sunless  down,  and  moan'd  against 

the  piers. 


But  o'er  the  chasm  I  saw  Lord  Wil- 
liam Howard 
By  torchlight,   and   his  guard ;    fout 

guns  gaped  at  me. 
Black,   silent    mouths :    had    Howard 

spied  me  there 
And  made   them   speak,   as  well    he 

might  have  done, 
Their  voice  had  left  me  none  to  tell 

you  this. 
What  shall  we  do  ? 

Brett.  On  somehow.  To  go  back 
Were  to  lose  all. 

Wyatt.  On  over  London  Bridge 

We  cannot .  stay  we  cannot ;  there  is 

ordnance 
On   the    White    Tower    and    on   the 

Devil's  TDwer, 
And   pointed   full   at   Southwark ;  we 

must  round 
By  Kingston  Bridge. 
Brett.  Ten  miles  about. 

Wyatt.  Ev'n  so 

But  I  have  notice  from  our  partisans 
Within  the  city  that  they  will  stand  by 

us 
If  Ludgate  can  be  reach'd  by  dawn  to* 

morrow. 

Enter  one  (t/*  Wyatt's  men. 

Man.  Sir  Thomas,  I  ve  found  this 
paper,  pray  your  worship  read  it ;  T 
know  not  my  letters ;  the  old  priests 
taught  me  nothing. 

Wyatt    {reads).      "  Whosoever    will 
apprehend  the  traitor  Thomas  Wyatt 
shall  have  a  hundred  pounds  for  re- 
ward." 
Man.  Is  that  it  ?  That's  a  big  lot  of 

money. 
Wyatt.  Ay,  ay,  my  friend ;  not  read 
it .''  'tis  not  written 
Half  plain  enough.     Give  me  a  piece 
of  paper  ! 

[  Writes  "  Thomas  Wyatt  "  large. 
There,  any  may  can  read  that. 

[St/c/;s  it  in  his  cap. 
Brett.  But  that's  foolhardy. 

Wyatt.    No !    boldness,    which    will 
give  my  follov/ers  boldness. 


562 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Enter  Man  with  a  prisoner. 
Man.  We  found  him,  your  worship, 
a  plundering   o'  Bishop    Winchester's 
house;  he  says  he's  a  poor  gentleman. 
Wyatt.    Gentleman,    a    thief !      Go 
hang  him.     Shall  we  make 
Those  that  we  come  to  serve  our  sharp- 
est foes .'' 
Brett.  Sir  Thomas— 
Wyatt.  Hang  him,  I  say. 

Brett.  Wyatt,  but  now  you  promised 

me  a  boon. 
Wyatt.  Ay,  and  I  warrant  this  fine 

fellow's  life. 
Brett.  Ev'n  so ;  he  was  my  neighbor 
once  in  Kent. 
He's  poor  enough,  has  drunk  and  gam- 
bled out 
All   that   he   had,  and  gentleman  he 

was. 
We  have  been  glad  together ;  let  him 
live. 
Wyatt.  He  has  gambled  for  his  life, 
and  lost,  he  hangs. 
No,  no,  my  word's   my   word.     Take 

thy  poor  gentleman  ! 
Gamble   thyself  at    once    out  of  my 

sight, 
Or  I  will  dig  thee  with  my  dagger. 

Away! 
Women  and  children  ! 

Enter  a  Crowd  of  ^OM'E^  and  Chil- 
dren 

First  Wo7nan.  O  Sir  Thomas,  Sir 
Thomas,  pray  you  go  away.  Sir 
Thomas,  or  you'll  make  the  White 
Tower  a  black  'un  for  us  this  blessed 
day  He'll  be  the  death  on  us  ;  and 
you'll  set  the  Devil's  Tower  a-spitting, 
and  he'll  smash  all  our  bits  o'  things 
worse  than  Philip  o'  Spain. 

Sicond  Woman  Don't  ye  now  go  to 
think  we  be  for  Philip  o'  Spain. 

Third  Woman.  No,  we  know  that 
ye  be  come  to  kill  the  Queen,  and 
we'll  pray  for  you  on  all  Dur  bended 
knees.  But  o'  God's  mercy  don't  ye 
kill  the  Queen  here,  Sir  Thomas ;  look 
ve,  here's  little  Dickon,  and  little 
kobin,  and  little  Jenny  -though  she's 


but  a  side-cousin  —  and  all  on  our 
knees,  we  pray  you  to  kill  the  Queen 
farther  off,  Sir  Thomas. 

Wyatt.  My  friends,  I  have  not  come 
to  kill  the  Queen 
Or  here  or  there  :  I  come  to  save  you 

all. 
And  I'll  go  farther  off. 

Crowd.  Thanks,  Sir  Thomas,  we  be 
beholden  to  you,  and  we'll  pray  for 
you  on  our  bended  knees  till  our  lives' 
end. 

Wyatt.  Be  happy,  I  am  your  friend. 

To  Kingston,  forward  ! 

[^Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  — ROOM  IN  THE 
GATE-HOUSE  UF  WESTMIN- 
STER PALACE. 

Mary,  Alice,  Gardiner,  Renard, 
Ladies 

Alice   O  madam,  if  Lord  Pembroke 

should  be  false } 
Mary.    No,   girl ;    most   brave   and 

loyal,  brave  and  loyal. 
His    breaking   with    Northumberlanc} 

broke  Northumberland. 
At  the  park  gate  he  hovers  with  our 

guards. 
These     Kentish     ploughmen     cannot 

break  the  guards. 

Enter  Messenger. 

Messenger.  Wyatt,  your  Grace,  hath 
broken  thro'  the  guards 
And  gone  to  Ludgate. 

Gardiner  "Madam,  I  much  fear 

That  all  is  lost ;  but  we  can  save  your 

Grace: 
The  river  still  is  free     I  do  beseech 

you. 
There  yet  is  time,  take  boat  and  pass 
to  Windsor. 
Mary.  I  pass  to  Windsor  and  I  lose 

my  crown.  * 

Gardiner.    Pass,   then,  I  pray  your 

Highness,  to  the  Tower. 
Mary.  I  shall  but  be  their  prisonCf 
in  the  Tower. 


QUEEN  MARY, 


563 


Cries  [zvtfhout).    The  traitor  f   trea- 
son !  Pembroke  ! 
tadies.  Treason!  treason! 

Mary.  Peace. 
False  to  Northumberland,  is  he  false 

to  me  ? 
■Bear  witness,  Renard,  that  I  live  and 

die 
i'he  true  and  faithful  bride  of  Philip — 

A  sound 
Of  feet  and  voices  thickening  hither — 

blows — 
Hark,    there   is   battle   at   the   palace 

gates, 
And  I  will  out  upon  the  gallery. 

Ladies.    No,   no,   your   Grace ;    see 

there  the  arrows  flying. 
Mary.  I  am  Harry's   daughter,  Tu- 
dor, and  not  fear. 

\Goes  out  on  the  gallery. 
The  guards  are   all  driven  in,  skulk 

into  corners 
Like  rabbits  to   their   holes.     A  gra- 
cious guard 
Truly ;  shame  on  them,  they  have  shut 
the  gates  ! 

Enter  SiR  Robert  Southwell. 
Soutkzvell.  The  porter,  please  your 
Grace,  hath  shut  the  gates 
On  friend  and  foe.     Your  gentlemen- 
at-arms, 
If  this  be  not  your  Grace's  order,  cry 
To  have  the  gates  set  wide  again,  and 

they 
With  their   good   battle-axes   will   do 

you  right 
Against  all  traitors. 
Mary.  They  are  the  flower  of  Eng- 
land; set  the  gates  wide. 

\Exit  Southwell. 
Enter  Courtenay. 
Coiirtenay.    All    lost,    all    lost,     all 
yielded ;  a  barge,  a  barge. 
The  Queen  must  to  the  Tower. 

IMary.  Whence  come  you,  sir  } 

}£oHrtenay.    From    Charing    Cross; 
^    the  rebels  broke  us  there, 
iid  I  sped  hither  with  what  haste  I 
might 
To  save  my  royal  cousin. 


Mary.  Where  is  Pembroke  .'' 

Cou7-tenay.  I  left  him  somewhere  in 

the  thick  of  it. 
Mary.     Left  him  and  fled ;  and  thou 
that  wouldst  be  King, 
And  hast  nor  heart  nor  honor.     I  my 

self 
Will  down  into  the  battle   and  ther« 

bide 
The  upshot  of  my  quarrel,  or  die  with 

those 
That  are  no  cowards  and  no   Courte* 
nays. 
Coitrtenay.      I    do    not    love    your 
Grace  should  call  me  coward. 

Enter  another  Messenger. 

Messenger,      Over,   your  Grace,   all 

crush'd;  the  brave  Lord  William 

Thrust   him   from   Ludgate,   and   the 

traitor  flying 
To  Temple  Bar,  there  by  Sir  Maurice 

Berkeley 
Was  taken  prisoner. 
Mary.        To  the  Tower  with  him  ! 
Messenger.      'Tis    said  he  told  Sir 
Maurice  there  was  one 
Cognizant  of  this,  and  party  thereunto, 
My  Lord  of  Devon. 

Mary.         To  the  Tower  with  ///;// .' 
Coiirtenay.     O    la,   the   Tower,  the 
Tower,  always  the  Tower, 
I  shall  grow  into   it — I  shall  be  the 
Tower. 
Mary.      Your    Lordship    may    not 
have  so  long  to  wait. 
Remove  him ! 

Conrtenay.     La,   to  whistle  out  my 
life, 
And   carve  my   coat  upon  the  walls 
again ! 

\Exit  COUKTEH AY,  guarded. 

Messenger.      Also    this    Wyatt   did 

confess  the  Princess 

Cognizant  thereof,   and  party    there' 

unto. 

Alary.     What?    whom— whom  did 

you  say  ? 
Messenger^    Elizabeth, 
Your  royal  sister. 

Mary.  To  the  Tower  with  her\ 


5^-54 


QUEEN  MARY, 


My  foes   are   at  my  feet  and   I  am 
Queen. 
Gardiner  and  her  Ladies  kneel 
to  her. 
Gardiner  {rising).     There  let  them 
lie,  your  footstool !  {Aside).     Can 
I  strike 
Elizabeth  ? — not  now  and  save  the  life 
Of  Devon :  if  I  save  him,  he  and  his 
Are   bound  to   me — may  strike    here- 
after.    {Aloud  )   Madam, 
What  Wyatt  said,  or  what  they  said  he 

said, 
Cries  of  the  moment  and  the  street — 
Mary.  He  said  it. 

Gardiner.   Your  courts  of  justice  will 

determine  that. 
Renard  {advancing).     I  trust  by  this 
your  highness  will  allow 
Some  spice   of  wisdom  in  my  telling 

you, 
When  last  we  talk'd,  that  Philip  would 

not  come 
Till  Guildford  Dudley  and  the  Duke 

of  Suffolk 
And  Lady  Jane  had  left  us. 
Mary.  They  shall  die. 

Renard.  And  your  so  loving  sister  } 
Mary.  She  shall  die. 

My  foes  are  at  my  feet,  and  Philip 
King.  \Exeunt. 


ACT  HI. 

SCENE    L— THE    CONDUIT   IN 
GRACE-CHURCH, 

Painted  with  the  Nine  Worthies^  among 
them  King  Henry  VIII.  holding  a 
hook,  on  it  inscribed  "  Verbum  DeiP 

Enter   SiR   Ralph   Bagenhall  and 
Sir  Thomas  Stafford. 

Bagenhall.  A  hundred  here  and 
hundreds  hang'd  in  Kent. 

The  tigress  had  unsheath'd  her  nails 
at  last. 

And  Renard  and  the  Chancellor 
sharpen'd  them. 


In  every  London  street  a  gibbet  stood 
They  are  down  to-day.     Here  by  this 

house  was  one  -, 
The  traitor   husband   dangled   at  the 

door, 
And  when  the   traitor  wife  came   out 

for  bread 
To  still  the  petty  treason  therewithin. 
Her  cap  would  brush  his  heels. 

Stafford.  It  is  Sir  Ralph, 

And   muttering   to  himself  as  hereto- 
fore. 
Sir,  see  you  aught  up  yonder  } 

Bagenhall.  I  miss  something. 

The  tree  that  only  bears  dead  fruit  is 
gone. 
Stafford.    What  tree,  sir  ? 
Bagenhall.     Well,  the  tree  in  Virgil, 
sir, 
That  bears  not  its  own  apples. 

Stafford.  What !  the  gallows  ? 

Bagenhall.     Sir,  this  dead  fruit  was 
ripening  overmuch, 
And   had   to  be  removed  lest  living 

Spain 
Should  sicken  at  dead  England. 

Stafford.  Not  so  dead. 

But  that  a  shock  may  rouse  her. 

Bagenhall.  I  believe 

Sir  Thomas  Stafford  ? 
Stafford.  I  am  ill  disguised. 

Bagenhall.      Well,   are  you  not   in. 

peril  here  ? 
Stafford.  I  think  so. 
I  came  to  feel  the  pulse  of   England, 

whether 
It  beats  hard  at  this  marriage.     Did 
you  see  it? 
Bagenhall.      Stafford,   I   am   a   sad 
man  and  a  serious, 
Far  liefer  had  I  in  my  country  hall 
Been    reading   some    old    book,   with 

mine  old  hound 
Couch'd  at  my  hearth,  and  mine   old 

flask  of  wine 
Beside  me,  than  have  seen  it,  yet  I  saw 
it. 
Stafford     Good  ;  was  it  splendid  t 
Bagenhall.     Ay,  if  Dukes  and  Earls, 
And  Counts,  and  sixty  Spanish  cava 
liers. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


S6S 


Some  six  or  seven  Bishops,  diamonds, 

pearls, 
That  royal  commonplace   too,  cloth  of 

gold, 
Could  make  it  so. 
Stafford.     And    what    was     Mary's 

dress  ? 
Bagenhall.     Good   faith,  I  was   too 

sorry  for  the  woman 
T^*   mark  the    dress.     She   wore   red 

shoes! 
Stafford.  Red  shoes ! 

Bagenhall.     Scarlet,   as   if   her  feet 

were  wash'd  in  blood. 
As  if  she  had  waded  in  it. 

Stafford.  Were  your  eyes 

So  bashful  that  you  look'd  no  higher  "i 

Bagenhall.  A  diamond, 

And  Philip's  gift,  as  proof  of  Philip's 

love, 
"Who   hath  not   any   for  any, — tho'  a 

true  one, 
Blazed  false  upon  her  heart. 
Stafford.        But  this  proud  Prince — 
Bagenhall.     Nay,    he   is    King,  you 

know,  the  King  of  Naples. 
The  father  ceded  Naples,  that  the  son 
Being  a  King,  might  wed  a  Queen — O 

he 
Flamed  in  brocade — white  satin  his 

trunk  hose. 
Inwrought  with  silver, — on  his  neck  a 

collar. 
Gold,  thick  with  diamonds;  hanging 

down  from  this 
The   Golden    Fleece — and   round   his 

knee,  misplaced. 
Our    English    Garter,   studded     with 

great  emeralds, 
Rubies,  I  know  not  what.     Have  you 

had  enough 
Of  all  this  gear  ? 
Stafford.     Ay,   since   you   hate   the 

telling  it. 
How  look'd  the  Queen  ? 

Bagenhall.    No  fairer  for  her  jewels. 
And  I  could  see  that  as  the  new-made 

couple 
Came  from  the  Minster,  rhoving  side 

by  side 
Beneath  one  canopy,  ever  and  anon 


She  cast  on  him  a  vassal  smile  of  love. 
Which   Philip  with  a  glance  of  some 

distaste. 
Or  so  methought,  return'd.     I  may  be 

wrong,  sir. 
This  marriage  will  not  hold. 

Stafford.  I  think  with  you. 

The  King  of  France  will  help  to  break 

it. 
Bagenhall.  France ! 

We   once    had   half   of    France,   and 

hurl'd  our  battles 
Into  the  heart  of  Spain  ;  but  England 

now 
Is  but  a  ball  chuck'd  between   France 

and  .Spain, 
His  in  whose  hand  she  drops  ;  Harry 

of  Bolingbroke 
Had  holpen  Richard's  tottering  throne 

to  stand. 
Could    Harry   have   foreseen  that  all 

our  nobles  [field. 

Would  perish  on  the   civil  slaughter- 
And   leave   the   people   naked  to  the 

crown, 
And  the  crown  naked  to  the  people; 

the  crown 
Female,  too  !  Sir,  no  woman's  regimen 
Can  save  us.     We  are  fallen,  and  as  I 

think, 
Never  to  rise  again. 

Stafford.       You      are    too      black- 
blooded. 
I'd  make  a  move  myself  to  hinder 

that : 
I  know   some   lusty  fellows  there  in 

France. 
Bagenhall.     You   would   but    make 

us  weaker,  Thomas  Stafford. 
Wyatt  was  a   good    soldier,   yet  he 

fail'd. 
And  strengthen'd  Philip. 

Stafford.         Did  not  his  last  breath 
Clear  Courtenay  and  the  Princess  from 

the  charge 
Of  being  his  co-rebels  "i 

Bagenhall.  Ay,  but  then 

What   such   a   one   as  Wyatt  says   is 

nothing  : 
We   have  no  men   among    us.      The 

new  Lords 


565 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Are  quieted  with  their  sop  of  Abbey 
lands, 

And  ev'n   before   the    Queen's    face 
Gardiner  buys  them 

With    Philip's   gold.      All   greed,   no 
faith,  no  courage ! 

Why,  ev'n  the  haughty  prince,  Nor- 
thumberland, 

The  leader  of  our  Reformation,  knelt 

And  blubber'd  like  a  lad,  and  on  the 
scaffold 

Recanted,  and  resold  himself  to  Rome. 
Stafford.      I   swear    you    do    your 
country  wrong,  Sir  Ralph. 

I  know  a  set  of  exiles  over  there. 

Dare-devils,  that  would  eat  fire  and 
spit  it  out 

At  Philip's  beard  :  they  pillage  Spain 
already. 

The   French   king  winks  at   it.     An 
hour  will  come 

When  they  will  sweep  her  from  the 
seas.     No  men  ?  [man  ? 

Did  not  Lord    Suffolk  die  like  a  true 

Is  not   Lord  William  Howard  a  true 
man  ? 

Yea,  you  yourself,  altho' you  are  black- 
blooded  : 

And  I,  by  God,  believe  myself  a  man. 

Ay,  even  in  the  church  there  is  a  man — 

Cranmer. 

Fly,  would  he  not,  when  all  men  bade 
him  fly. 

And  what  a  letter  he  wrote  against  the 
Pope ! 

There's  a  brave  man,  if  any. 
Bagenhall.  Ay  ;  if  it  hold. 

Crowd  {coming on).    God  save  their 

Graces  ! 
Stafford.  Bagenhall,  I  see 

The  Tudor  green  and  white.     ( Trum- 
pets.)    They  are  coming  now. 

And  here's  a  crowd  as  thick  as  herring- 
shoals. 
Bagenhall.  -  Be  limpets  to  this  pillar, 
or  we  are  torn 

Down  the  strong  wave  of  brawlers. 
Crowd.     God  save  their  Graces. 
\Procession  of  Trumpeters^  "Javelin- 
7nen,  etc.  ;     then     Spanish    and 
Flemish  Nobles  intermingled. 


Stafford.     Worth  seeing,  Bagenhall  1 
These  black  dog-Dons 
Garb  themselves  Uravely.     Who's  the 

long-face  there. 
Looks  very  Spain  of  very  Spain  ? 

Bagenhall.  The  Duke 

Of  Alva,  an  iron  soldier. 

Stafford.  And  the  Dutchman, 

Now  laughing  at  some  jest  ? 

Bagenhall,  William  of  Orange, 

William  the  Silent. 
Stafford.     Why  do  they  call  him  so  "i 
Bagenhall.  He  keeps,  they  say,  some 
secret  that  may  cost 
Philip  his  life. 
Stafford.  But  then  he  looks  so  merry. 
Bagenhall.  I   cannot   tell   you    why 

they  call  him  so. 
The  King  a^id  Queen /aj'j,  attended 
by  Beers  of  the   Realm,  Officers  of 
State,  etc.     Cannon  shot  off 
Crozud.  Philip  and  Mary,  Philip  and 
Mary. 
Long  live  the  King  and  Queen,  Philip 
and  Mary. 
Stafford.   They  smile,  as  if  content 

with  one  another. 
Bagenhall.  A  smile  abroad  is  oft  a 
scowl  at  home. 

[King  and  Queen  pass  on.    Pro- 
cession. 
First  Citizen.  I  thought  this  Philip 
had  been  one  of  those  black  devils  of 
Spain,  but  he  hath  a  yellow  beard. 
Second  Citizen.  Not  red  like  Iscariot's. 
First  Citizen.    Like    a     carrot's,    as 
thou  sayst,  and  English  carrot's  better 
than  Spanish  licorice;  but  I  thought 
he  was  a  beast. 

Third  Citizen.  Certain  I  had  heard 
that  every  Spaniard  carries  a  tail  like 
a  devil  under  his  trunk  hose. 

Tailor.  Ay,  but  see  what  trunk 
hoses  !  Lord !  they  be  fine ;  I  never 
stitch'd  none  such.  They  make  amend? 
for  the  tails. 

Fourth  Citizen.  Tut !  every  Spanish 
priest  will  tell  you  that  all  English 
heretics  have  tails. 

Fifth  Citizen.  Death  and  the  Devil 
— if  he  find  I  have  one — 


QUEEN  MARY. 


5^7 


Fourth  Citizen.  Lo  !  thou  hast  call'd 
them  up  !  here  they  come — a  pale 
horse  for  Death  and  Gardiner  for  the 
Devil. 

Enter  GARDINER,  turning  back  from 
the  procession. 
Gardiner.  Knave,  wilt  thou  wear  thy 

cap  before  the  Queen  ? 
Majt.  My  Lord,  I  stand  so  squeezed 
among  the  crowd 
I  cannot  lif^  my  hands  unto  my  head. 
Gardiner.  Knock  off  his  cap  there, 
some  of  you  about  him  ! 
See  there  be  others  that  can  use  their 

hands. 
Thou  art  one  of  Wyatt's  men  .? 
Man.  No,  my  Lord,  no. 

Gardiner.  Thy  name,  thou  knave  ! 
Man.  I  am  nobody,  my  Lord. 

Gardiner  {shouting).  God's  passion  ! 

knave,  thy  name  t 
Man.  I  have  ears  to  hear. 

Gardijier.  Ay,  rascal,  if  I  leave  thee 
ears  to  hear. 
Find  out  his  name  and  bring  it  me  {to 
Attendant). 
Attendant.        Ay,  my  Lord. 
Gardiner.  Knave,   thou     shalt   lose 
thine  ears  and  find  thy  tongue. 
And  shalt  be  thankful  if  I  leave  thee 
that. 

[Coming  before  the  Conduit. 
The  conduit  painted — the  nine  worthies 

— ay  I 
But  then  what's  here  }    King  Harry 

with  a  scroll. 
Ha — Verbum  Dei — verbum — word  of 

God! 
God's  passion  !  do  you  know  the  knave 
that  painted  it? 
Attendant.  I  do,  my  Lord. 
Gardiner.      Tell  him  to  paint  it  out, 
And  put  some  fresh  device  in  lieu  of 

it— 
A  pair  of  gloves,  a  pair  of  gloves,  sir  ; 

ha? 
There  is  no  heresy  there. 

Attendant.  I  will,  my  Lord. 

The  man  shall  paint  a  pair  of  gloves. 
I  am  sure 


(Knowing    the    man)    he    wrought   it 

ignorantly. 
And  not  from  any  malice. 

Gardiner.  Word  of  God 

In  English !  over    this    the    brainless 

loons 
That  cannot    spell   Esaias    from    St 

Paul, 
Make  themselves  drunk  and  mad,  fly 

out  and  flare 

Into  rebellions.     I'll  have  their  Bibles 

burnt.  [.what  I 

The  Bible  is  the  priest's.     Ay  !  fellow, 

Stand  staring  at  me  !  shout,  you  gaping 

rogue. 

Man.  I  have,  my  Lord,  shouted  till 

I  am  hoarse. 
Gardiner.  What  hast  thou  shouted, 

knave  ? 
Man.  Long  live  Queen  Mary. 

Gardiner.    Knave,    their     be     two. 
There  be  both  King  and  Queen, 
Philip  and  Mary.     Shout. 

Man.  Nay,  but,  my  Lord, 

The   Queen    comes    first,   Mary  and 
Philip. 
Gardifter.  Shout,  then, 

Mary  and  Philip. 

Mail.  Mary  and  Philip  ! 

Gardiner.  Now, 

Thou  hast  shouted  for  thy  pleasure, 

shout  for  mine  ! 
Philip  and  Mary! 
Man.  Must  it  be  so,  my  Lord  ? 

Gardiner.  Ay,  knave. 
Man.  iPhilip  and  Mary ! 

Gardiner.  I  distrust  thee. 

Thine  is  a  half  voice  and  a  lean  assent. 
What  is  thy  name  ? 
Man.  Sanders. 

Gardiner.  What  else  ? 

Ma7}.  Zerubbabel. 

Gardiner.  Where  dost  thou  live? 
Man.  In  Cornhill. 

Gardiner.        Where,  knave,  where  ? 
Man.  Sign  of  the  Talbot. 
Gardiner.  Come  to  me  to-morrow. — 
Rascal ! — this  land  is  like  a  hill  of  fire. 
One  crater  opens  when  another  shuts. 
But    so  I    get  the   laws  against  the 
heretic. 


558 


QUEEN  MARY, 


Spite  of  Lord  Paget  and  Lord  William 

Howard, 
And  others  of  our  Parliament,  revived, 
I  will  show  fire  on  my  side — stake  and 

fire — 
Sharp  work   and  short.     The   knaves 

are  easily  cow'd. 
Follow  their  Majesties. 

\^Exit.     The  crowd follciving. 
Bagenhall.  As  proud  as  Becket. 

Stafford.  You  would  not  have  him 

murder 'd  as  Becket  was  ? 
Bagenhall^  No — murder  fathers  mur- 
der ;  but  I  say 
There  is    no     man — there    was    one 

woman  with  us — 
It  was  a  sin  to  love  her  married,  dead 
I  cannot  rhcose  but  love  her. 
Stafford.  Lady  Jane  ? 

Croxvd  {going  off).    God  save  their 

Graces. 
Stafford.         Did  you  see  her  die  ? 
Bagenhall.  No,     no ;    her     innocent 
blood  had  blinded  me. 
You  call  me  too  black-blooded — true 

enough 
Her  dark  dead  blood  is  in  my  heart 

with  mine. 
If  ever  I  cry  out  against  the  Pope, 
Her  dark  dead  bleed  that  ever  moves 

with  mine 
Will  stir  the  living  tongue  and  make 
the  cry. 
Stafford.  Yet  doubtless  you  can  tell 

me  how  she  died  ? 
Bagenhall.    Seventeen — and     knew 
eight  languages — in  music 
Peerless — her  needle  perfect,  and  her 

learning 
Beyond  the  churchmen  ;  yet  so  meek, 

so  modest, 
So  wife-like  humble  to  the  trivial  boy 
Mismatch'd  with  her  for  policy  !  I  have 

heard 
She  would  not  take  a  last  farewell  of 

him, 
She  fear'd  it  might  unman  him  for  his 

end. 
She  could  not  be  unmann'd — no,  nor 

out-vvoman'd — 
Seventeen — a  rose  of  grace  1 


Girl  never  breathed  to  rival  such  ^ 

rose  ; 
Rose  never  blew  that  equal  .'d  such  2 

bud. 
Stafford.  Pray  you  go  on. 
Bagenhall.  She  came  upon  the  scaf- 
fold. 
And  said  she  was  condemn'd  to  die  for 

treason ; 
She   had  but  follow'd  the  device  of 

those 
Her  nearest  kin :  she    thought    they 

knew  the  laws. 
But  for  herself,  she  knew  but  little  law, 
And  nothing  of  the  titles  to  the  crown  ; 
She  had  no  desire  for  that,  and  wrung 

her  hands. 
And  trusted  God  would  save  her  thro* 

the  blood 
Of  Jesus  Christ  alone. 

Stafford.  Pray  you  go  on. 

Bagenhall.  Then  knelt  and  said  the 

Miserere  Mei — 
But  all   in   English,   mark   you ;   rose 

again, 
And  when  the  headsman  pray'd  to  be 

forgiven, 
Said,  "  You  will  give  me  my  true  crown 

at  last,  [she, 

But  do  it  quickly;"  then  all  wept  but 
Who  changed  not  color  when  she  saw 

the  block. 
But  ask'd  him,  childlike :  "  Will  you 

take  it  off 
Before     I    lay    me     down  ? "     "  No, 

madam,"  he  said, 
Gasping ;  and  when  her  innocent  eyes 

were  bound, 
She,  with  her  poor  blind  hands  feeling 

— *'  where  is  it  ? 
Where  is  it  ?  " — You  must  fancy  that 

which  follow'd, 
If  you  have  heart  to  do  it ! 

Crowd  {in  the  distance).     God  save 

their  Graces ! 
Stafford.    Their     Graces,    our    dis. 

graces  !     God  confound  them  i 
Why  she's  grown  bloodier !  when  I 

last  was  here. 
This    was   against    her    conscience-* 

would  be  murder  I 


QUEEN  MARY 


569 


Bagenhall.  The  "  Thou  shalt  do  no 

murder,"  which  God's  hand 
Wrote  on  her  conscience,  Mary  rubb'd 

out  pale — 
She  could  not  make  it  white — and  over 

that, 
Traced  in  the  blackest  text  of  Hell — 

"  Thou  Shalt !  " 
And  sign'd  it — Mary  ! 

Stafford.  Philip  and  the  Pope 

Must   have    sign'd   too.     I    hear   this 

Legate's  coming 
To  bring  us  absolution  from  the  Pope. 
The   Lords   and   Commons   will   bow 

down  before  him — 
You  are  of  the  bouse  }  what  will  you 

do,  Sir  Ralph  ? 
Eagenhall.  And    why   should    I    be 

bolder  than  the  rest. 
Or  honester  than  all  ? 

Stafford.  But,  sir,  if  I— 

And  0"er  sea   they  say  this  state  of 

yours 
Hath  no  more  mortise  than  a  tower  of 

cards; 
And  that  a  puff  would  do  it — then  if  I 
And  others  made  that  move  I  touch 'd 

upon, 
Back'd  by  the  power  of  France,  and 

landing  here, 
Came  with  a  sudden  splendor,  shout, 

and  show. 
And  dazzled  men    and    deat^n'd   by 

some  bright 
Loud  venture,  and  the  people  so  un- 
quiet— 
And  I  the  race  of  murder'd  Bucking- 
ham— 
Not  for  myself,  but  for  the  kingdom — 

Sir, 
1  trust  that  you  would  fight  along  with 

us. 
Bagenhall.    No !    you    would    fling 

your  lives  into  the  gulf. 
Stafford.  But  if  this  Philip,  as  he's 

like  to  do. 
Left  Mary  a  wife-widow  here  alone. 
Set  up  a  viceroy,   sent  his    myriads 

hither 
To  seize  upon  the  forts  and  fltet,  and  { 

make  us  J 


A  Spanish  province  ;  would  you  not 
fight  then  1 
Bagenhall.  I   think   I   should    fight 

then. 
Stafford.  I  am  sure  of  it. 

Hist !  there's  the  face  coming  on  here 

of  one 
Who  knows  me.     I  must  leave  you\. 

Fare  you  well, 
You'll  hear  of  me  again. 
Bagefihall.  Upon  the  scaffold. 

[^Exeunt. 

SCENE  IL— ROOM  IN  WHITE- 
HALL PALACE. 

Mary.    Enter  Philip  and  Cardinal 
Pole. 

Pole.  Ave  Maria,  gratia  plena,  Ben- 

edicta  tu  in  mulieribus. 
Mary.  Loyal  and  royal  cousin,  hum- 
blest thanks. 
Had  you  a  pleasant  voyage  up  the 

river  } 
Pole.  We  had  your  royal  barge,  and 

that  same  chair, 
Or  rather  throne  of  purple,  on   the 

deck. 
Our  silver  cross  sparkled  before  the 

prow. 
The  ripples  twinkled  at  their  diamond- 
dance. 
The  boats  that  follow'd,  were  as  glow- 

ing  gay 
As  regal  gardens ;  and  your  flocks  of 

swans. 
As  fair  and  white  as  angels  ;  and  your 

shores 
Wore  in  mine  eyes  the  green  of  Para« 

dise. 
My  foreign   friends,  who  dream'd  us 

blanketed 
In  ever-closing  fog,  were  much  amazed 
To   find  as  fair  a  sun  as  might  have 

flash'd 
Upon  their  Lake  of  Garda  fire    the 

Thames ; 
Our  voyage  by  sea  was  all  but  miracle  ; 
And  here  the  river  flowing  from  the 

sea, 


57° 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Not  toward  it  (for  they  thought  not  of 

our  tides), 
Seem'd  as    a  happy  miracle  to  make 

glide — 
In   quiet — home   your  banish'd   coun- 
tryman. 
Mary.  We  heard  that  you  were  sick 

in  Flanders,  cousin. 
I   Pole.  A  dizziness. 
Mary.    And   how   came  you   round 

again .? 
Pole.  The  scarlet  thread  of  Rahab 

saved  her  life  ; 
And  mine,  a  little  letting  of  the  blood. 
Mary.  Well.''  now.? 
Pole.     Ay,   cousin,   as   the    heathen 

giant 
Had  but  to  touch  the  ground,  his  force 

return'd — 
Thus,   after   twenty  years  of  banish- 
ment. 
Feeling   my   native   land  beneath  my 

foot, 
I '  said  thereto  :  "  Ah,  native   land   of 

mine, 
Thou  art  much  beholden  to  this  foot 

of  mine, 
That  hastes  with  full  commission  from 

the  Pope 
To    absolve  thee    from  thy  guilt  of 

heresy. 
Thou  hast  disgraced  me  and  attainted 

me, 
And  mark'd  me  ev'n  as  Cain,  and  I 

return 
As  Peter,  but  to  bless  thee  :  make  me 

well." 
Methinks  the  good  land  heard  me,  for 

to-day 
My  heart  beats  twenty,  when  I  see  you, 

cousin. 
Ah,  gentle  cousin,  since  your  Herod's 

death, 
How  oft  hath  Peter  knock'd  at  Mary's 

gate! 
And  Mary  would  have  risen  and  let 

him  in, 
But,  Mary,  there  were  those  within  the 

house 
Who  would  not  have  it 
Mary.  True,  good  cousin  Pole ; 


And  there  were  also  those  without  the 

house 
Who  would  not  have  it. 

Pole.  I  believe  so,  cousin. 

State-policy  and  church-policy  are  con- 

joint, 
But  Janus-faces  looking  diverse  ways. 
I  fear  the  Emperor  much  misvalued 

me. 

But  all  is  well;  'twas  ev'n  the  will  of 

God,  [now, 

Who,  waiting  till  the  time  had  ripen'd, 

Makes  me  his  mouth  of  holy  greeting. 

"Hail, 
Daughter   of   God,  and   saver   of  the 

faith, 
Sit  benedictus  fructus  ventris  tui  1 '' 
Mary.  Ah,  heaven ! 
Pole.  Unwell,  your  Grace? 

Mary.  No,  cousin,  happy- 

Happy    to    see    you ;    never    yet  so 
happy  ,r  i 

Since  I  was  crown'd.  ' 

Pole.  Sweet  cousin,  you  forget 

That  long  low  minster  where  you  gave 

your  hand 
To  this  great  Catholic  King. 
Philip.  Well  said,  Lord  Legat«i. 

Mary.  Nay,  not  well  said ;  I  thought 
of  you,  my  liege, 
Ev'n  as  I  spoke. 

Philip.  Ay,  Madam  ;  my  Lord  Paget 
Waits  to  present  our  Council  to  the 

Legate. 
Sit  down  here,  all;  Madam,  between 
us  you. 
Pole.  Lo,  now  you  are  enclosed  with 
boards  of  cedar. 
Our  little  sister  of  the  Song  of  Songs  ! 
You  are  doubly  fenced  and  shielded 

sitting  here 
Between  the  two  most  high-set  thrones 

on  earth, 
The  Emperor's  highness  happily  sym- 

boll'd  by 
The  King  your  husband,  the   Pope's 

Holiness 
By  mine  own  self. 

Mary.        True,  cousin,  I  am  happy. 
When  will  you  that  we  summon  botll 
our  houses 


QUEEN  MARY. 


57^ 


To  take   his  absolution  from  your  lips 

And  be  regather'd  to  the  Papal  fold  ? 
Pole.  In  Britain's  calendar  the  bright- 
est day 

Beheld    our  rough  forefathers  break 
their  Gods, 

And  clasp  the  faith  in  Christ ;  but  af- 
ter that 

Might  not  St.  Andrew's  be  her  hap- 
piest day  ? 
Mary.  Then  these  shall  meet  upon 
St.  Andrew's  day. 

Enter  Paget,  who  presents  the  Coun- 
cil.    Dumb  show. 
Pole.  I  am  an  old  man  wearied  with 
my  journey, 
Ev'n  with  my  joy.     Permit  me  to  with- 
draw. 
To  Lambeth  ? 
Philip.    Ay,   Lambeth    has    ousted 
Cranmer. 
It   was   not  meet  the    heretic    swine 

should  live 
In  Lambeth. 
Mary.  There  or  anywhere,  or  at  all. 
Philip.  We  have  had  it  swept  and 

garnish'd  after  him. 
Pole.  Not  for  the  seven  devils  to  en- 
ter in  .'' 
Philip.  No,  for  we  trust  they  parted 

in  the  swine. 
Pole.  True,  and  I  am  the  Angel  of 
tiie  Pope. 
Farewell,  your  Graces. 

Philip.  Nay,  not  here — to  me  ; 

I  will  go  with  you  to  the  waterside. 
Pole.    Not   be    my    Charon  to    the 

counter  side  ? 
Philip.    No,   my   Lord   Legate,   the 

Lord  Chancellor  goes. 
Pole.  And  unto  no  dead  world  ;  but 
Lambeth  palace, 
Henceforth  a  centre  of  the  living  faith. 
[Exetmt  Philip,  Pole.  Paget,  ^/r. 
Manet  Mary 
Mary.    He    hath   awaked!    he   hath 
awaked  ! 
He  stirs  within  the  darkness  ! 
Oh,  Philip,  husband  !  now  thy  love  to 
mine 


Will  cling  more  close,  and  those  bleak 

manners  thaw. 
That   make   me   shamed   and  tongue. 

tied  in  my  love. 
The  second  Prince  of  Peace — 
The    great   unborn    defender    of  the 

Faith, 
Who   will    avenge   me    of  mine   ene- 
mies— 
He  comes,  and  my  star  rises. 
The  stormy  Wyatts  and  Northumber- 

lands, 
The  proud  ambitions  of  Elizabeth, 
And    all    her  fieriest   partisans  —  are 

pale 
Before  my  star  I 
The  light  of  this  new  learning  wanes 

and  dies  : 
The   ghosts   of  Luther  and   Zuinglius 

fade 
Into  the  deathless  hell  which  is  their 

doom 
Before  my  star  !  find! 

His  sceptre  shall  go  forth  from  Ind  to 
His  sword  shall  hew  the  heretic  peo- 
ples down  ! 
His  faith   shall  clothe  the  world  that 

will  be  his, 
Like     universal    air    and    sunshine  I 

Opeu, 
Ye   everlasting   gates !    The   King  is 

here  ! — 
My  star,  my  son  ! 

E7iter  Philip,  Duke  of  Alva,  ete. 

Oh,  Philip,  come  with  me; 

Good  news  have  I  to  tell  you,  news  to 
make 

Both   of   us   happy — ay,  the  Kingdom 
too. 

Nay  come  with  me — one  moment ! 
Philip  {to  Alva).      More  than  that ; 

There  was  one  here  of  late — William 
the  Silent 

They  call  him — he  is  free  enough  in 
talk, 

But   tells   me   nothing.     You  will  be, 
we  trust, 

Some  time  the  viceroy  of  those  prov- 
inces— 

He  must  deserve  his  surname  better. 


S72 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Alva.  Ay,  sir ; 

Inherit  the  Great  Silence. 

Philip.  True  ;  the  provinces 

Are  hard  to  rule  and  must  be  hardly 
ruled ;  rind, 

Most  fruitful,  yet,  indeed,  an  empty 
All  hollow'd  out  with  stingy  heresies; 
And  for  their  heresies,  Alva,  they  will 

fight: 
You  must  break  them  or   they  break 
vou. 
Alva  {froudly).  The  first. 

Philip.  Good! 
Well,  Madam,  this  new  happiness  of 
mine.  \Exewit. 

Enter  Three  Pages. 

First  Page.  News,  mates  !  a  miracle, 
a  miracle  !  news ! 
The  bells  must  ring  ;  Te  Deums  must 

be  sung  ; 
The  Queen  hath  felt  the  motion  of  her 
babe ! 
Second  Page.  Ay ;  but  see  here ! 
First  Page.  See  what  "i 

Second  Page.       This  paper,  Dickon. 
I   found  it  fluttering    at  the    palace 

gates  : — 
*'  The  Queen  of  England  is  delivered 
of  a  dead  dog !  " 
Third  Page.   These  are   the  things 

that  madden  her.     Fie  upon  it. 
First  Page.  Ay,  but  I  hear  she  hath 
a  dropsy,  lad. 
Or  a  high-dropsy,  as  the  doctors  call 
it. 
Third  Page.  Fie  on  her  dropsy,  so 
she  have  a  dropsy  ! 
I  know  that  she  was  ever  sweet  to  me. 
First  Pige.  For  thou  and  thine  are 

Roman  to  the  core. 
Third  Page.  So  thou  and  thine  must 

be.     Take  heed  ! 
First  Page.  Not  I, 

And  whether  this  flash  of  news  be 

false  or  true. 
So  the  wine  run,  and  there  be  revelry, 
Content  am  I.     Let  all  the  steeples 

clash, 
Till  the  sun  dance,   as   upon  Easter 
Day.  lExeufit. 


SCENE  III.— GREAT    HALL    IN 
WHITEHALL. 

At  the  far  end  a  dais.  On  this  three 
chairs,  two  tinder  one  canopy  for 
Mary  and  Philip,  another  on  the 
right  of  these  for  Pole.  Under  the 
dais  on  Pole's  side,  ranged  along  the 
zuall,  sit  all  the  Spiritual  Peers,  and 
along  the  wall  opposite,  all  the  Tevi- 
poral.  The  Commons  on  cross  benches 
in  front,  a  lifie  of  approach  to  the 
dais  between  them.  In  the  foreground 
Sir  Ralph  Bagenhall  and  other 
Members  of  the  Commons. 

First  Member.  St.  Andrew's  day;  sit 

close,  sit  close,  we  are  friends. 
Is    reconciled  the    word  t    the    Pope 

again  "i 
It  must  be  thus ;  and  yet,  cocksbody  I 

how  strange 
That  Gardiner,  once  so  one  with  all  of 

us 
Against  this  foreign  marriage,  should 

have  yielded 
So  utterly  !  —  strange  !    but  stranger 

still  that  he. 
So  fierce  against  the  Headship  of  the 

Pope, 
Should  play  the  second  actor  in  this 

pageant 
That  brings  him  in ;  such  a  chameleon 

he  ! 
Second  Member.  This  Gardiner  turn'd 

his  coat  in  Henry's  time ; 
The    serpent  that  hath  slough'd  will 

slough  again. 
Third  Member.  Tut,  then  we  all  are 

serpents. 
Second  Member.  Speak  for  yourself. 
Third  Member.    Ay,   and   for   Gar- 
diner!  being  English  citizen, 
How  should  he  bear  a  bridegroom  out 

of  Spain  t 
The  Queen  would  have  him  !    being 

English  churchman, 
How  should  he  bear  the  headship  of 

the  Pope } 
The  Queen  would  have  it !   Statesmen 

that  are  wise 


QVILJSN  MARY. 


573 


Shape   a    necessity,   as    the    sculptor 

clay, 
To  their  own  model. 
Second  Member.  Statesmen  that  are 

wise 
Take  truth  herself  for  model,  what  say 

you  ? 

[TT?  Sir  Ralph  Dagenhall. 
Bagenhall.     We  talk  and  talk. 
First  Member.  Ay,  and  what  use  to 

talk  ? 
Philip's  no  sudden  alien— the  Queen's 

husband, 
He's  here,  and  king,  or  will  be,— yet, 

cocksbody  ! 
So  hated  here  !     I  watch'd  a  hive  of 

late  ; 
My  seven-years'  friend  was  with  me, 

my  young  boy ; 
Out  crept  a  wasp,  with  half  the  swarm 

behind. 
"Philip,"  says  he.     I  had  to  cuff  the 

rogue 
For  infant  treason. 

Third  Me?nber.    But  they  say  that 

bees, 
If  any  creeping  life  invade  their  hive 
Too  gross  to  be  thrust  out,  will  build 

him  round, 
And  bind  him  in  from  harming  of  their 

combs. 
And  Philip  by  these  articles  is  bound 
From  stirring  hand  or  foot  to  wrong 

the  realm. 
Second  Member.  By  bonds  of  bees- 
wax, like  your  creeping  thing  j 
But  your  wise  bees  had  stung  him  first 

to  death. 
Third  Member    Hush,  hush  ! 
You  wrong  the  Chancellor  :  the  clauses 

added 
To  that  same  treaty  which  the  emperor 

sent  us 
Were  mainly  Gardiner's  :  that  no  for- 
eigner 
Hold    office   in   the   household,   fleet, 

forts,  army; 
That  if  the  Queen  should  die  without 

a  child, 
The  bond  between  the   kingdoms  be 

dissolved ; 


That   Philig  should  not  mix   us   any 

way 
With  his  French  wars — 
Second  Member.  Ay,  ay,  but  what  se- 
curity. 
Good  sir,  for  this,  if  Philip — 

Third  Member.     Peace — the  Queen, 
Philip,  and  Pole.     [All  rise,  and  stand. 

Enter  Mary,  Philip,  atid  Pole. 

[Gardiner  conducts  them  to  the  three 
chairs  of  state.  Philip  sits  on  the 
Queen's  left,  Pole  on  her  right. 

Gardiner.   Our  short-lived  sun,  be- 
fore his  winter  plunge. 
Laughs  at  the  last  red  leaf,  and  An- 
drew's day. 
Mary.  Should  not  this  day  be  held 
in  after  years 
More  solemn  than  of  old  } 

Philip.  Madam,  my  wioh 

Echoes  your  majesty's. 

Pole.  It  shall  be  so. 

Gardiner.     Mine  echoes   both   your 

Graces' ;  [aside)  but  the  Pope — 

Can  we  not  have  the  Catholic  church 

as  well 
Without  as  with  the  Italian?  if  wc 

cannot, 
Why  then  the  Pope. 

My  lords  of  the  upper  house. 
And    ye,  my  masters,  of    the    lower 

house, 
Do  ye  stand  fast  by  that  which  ye  re- 
solved ? 
Voices.   We  d?). 

Gardiner.  And  be  you  all  one  mind 
to  supplicate 
The  Legate  here  for  pardon,  and  ac- 
knowledge 
The  primacy  of  the  Pope  } 

Voices.  We  are  all  one  mind. 

Gardiner.  Then  must  I  play  the  vas- 
sal to  this  Pole.  lAside. 
{He  draws  a  paper  frojn  under  his 
robes  and  presents  it  to  the  KiNG 
and  Queen,  rvho  look  through  it 
and  return  it  to  him  ;  then  ascends 
a  tribune  and  reads. 
We,  the  Lords  Spiritual  and  Temporal, 


574 


QUEEN  MARY. 


And  Commons  here  in  Parliament  as- 
sembled, 

Presenting  the  whole  body  of  this 
realm 

Of  England,  and  dominions  of  the 
same, 

Do  make  most  humble  suit  unto  your 
Majesties, 

In  our  own  name  and  that  of  all  the 
state, 

'That  by  your  gracious  means  and  in- 
tercession 

Our  supplication  be  exhibited 

To  the  Lord  Cardinal  Pole,  sent  here 
as  Legate 

From  our  most  holy  father  Julius, 
Pope, 

And  from  the  apostolic  see  of  Rome ; 

And  do  declare  our  penitence  and 
grief 

For  our  long  schism  and  disobedience. 

Either  in  making  laws  and  ordinances 

Against  the  Ploly  Father's  primacy, 

Or  else  by  doing  or  by  speaking  aught 

Which  might  impugn  or  prejudice  the 
same; 

By  this  our  supplication  promising. 

As  well  for  our  own  selves  as  all  the 
realm, 

That  now  we  be  and  ever  shall  be 
quick, 

Under  and  with  your  Majesties'  au- 
thorities. 

To  do  to  the  utmost  all  that  in  us 
lies 

Towards  the  abrogation  and  repeal 

Of  all  such  laws  and  ordinances  made; 

Whereon  we  humbly  pray  your  Maj- 
esties, 

As  persons  undefiled  with  our  offence. 

So  to  set  forth  this  humble  suit  of 
ours 

That  we  the  rather  by  your  interces- 
sion 

May  from  the  apostolic  see  obtain. 

Thro'  this  most  reverend  Father,  ab- 
solution, 

And  full  release  from  danger  of  all 
censures 

Of  Holv  Church  that  we  be  fall'n 
into, 


So  that  we  may,  as  children  penitent. 
Be  once  again  received  mto  the  bosom 
And  unity  of  Universal  Church  , 
And  that  this  noble  realm  thro'  after 

years 
May  in  this  unity  and  obedience 
Unto  the  holy  see  and  reigning  Pope 
Serve  God  and  both  your  Majesties 
Voices  Amen.      \All  sit. 

\He  again  presents  the  petition  to  the 

King  and  Queen,  ivfio  hand  it 

reverentially  to  PoLE. 
Pole  (sitting).    This  is  the  loveliest 

day  that  ever  smiled 
On  England.     All  her  breath  should, 

incense  like. 
Rise  to  the  heavens  in  grateful  praise 

of  Him 
Who  now   recalls   her   to  his  ancient 

fold. 
Lo  !  once  again  God  to  this  realm  hath 

given 
A  token  of  His  more  especial  Grace ; 
For   as   this  people  were  the  first  of 

all 
The   islands   call'd   into  the  dawning 

church 
Out  of  the  dead,  deep  night  of  heath 

endom, 
So  now  are  these  the  first  whom  God 

hath  given 
Grace  to  repent  and  sorrow  for  their 

schism; 
And  if  your  penitence  be  not  mockery. 
Oh  how  the  blessed  angels  who  rejoice^ 
Over   one   saved   do  triumph   at   this' 

hour 
In  the  reborn  salvation  of  a  land 
So  noble.  {A  fanse. 

For  ourselves  we  do  protest 
That  our  commission  is  to  heal,  not 

harm; 
We  come  not  to  condemn,  but  recon- 
cile ; 
We  come    not    to    compel,  but    ca'l 

again ; 
We  come  not  to  destroy,  but  edify ; 
Nor   yet   to   question    things    already 

done; 
These  are  forgiven  —  matters  of  the 

past — 


QUEEN  MARY. 


575 


And  range  with  jetsam  and  with  offal 
thrown 

Into  the  blind  sea  of  forgetfulness. 

\^A  pause. 

Ye  have  reversed  the  attainder  laid  on 
us 

By  him  who  sack'd  the  house  of  God ; 
and  we, 

Amplier  than  any  field   on  our  poor 
earth 

Can  render  thanks  in  fruit  for  being 
sown, 

Do  here  and  now  repay  you  sixty-fold, 

A  hundred,  yea,  a  thousand  thousand 
fold, 

With  heaven  for  earth. 

\Rising  and  stretching  forth  his  hands. 
All  kneel  bict  Sir  Ralph  Bagen- 
HALL,  who  rises  and  remains  stand- 
ing. 
The  Lord  who  hath  redeem'd  us 

With   his  own  blood,  and  wash'd  us 
from  our  sins, 

To  purchase  for  Himself  a  stainless 
bride ; 

He,  whom  the  Father  hath  appointed 
Head 

Of  all  his  church,  He  by  His  mercy 
absolve  you  !  \A  pause. 

And  we  by  that  authority  Apostolic 

Given   unto    us,   his    Legate,   by   the 
Pope, 

Our  Lord  and  Holy  Father,  Julius, 

God's    Vicar     and    Vicegerent     upon 
earth. 

Do  here  absolve  you  and  deliver  you 

And   every   one   of   you,    and  all    the 
realm 

And  its  dominions  from  all  heresy, 

All  schism,  and  from  all  and  every  cen- 
sure, 

Judgment,   and    pain   accruing  there- 
upon ; 

And  also  we  restore  you  to  the  bosom 

And  unity  of  Universal  Church. 

\Tnr7ii7tg  to  Gardiner. 

Our  letters  of  commission  will  declare 
this  plainlier. 

[Queen  heard  sobbing.  Cries  of 
Amen  !  Amen  !  Some  of  the 
members    embrace    one    another. 


All  but  Sir  Ralph  Bagenhall 

pass    out    into    the    neighboring 

chapel.,  whence  is   heard  the    Te 

Deum. 

Bagenhall.    We   strove   against   the 

papacy  from  the  first, 

In  William's  time,  in  our  first  Edward's 

time. 
And  in  my  master  Henry's  time;  but 

now, 
The  unity  of  Universal  Church, 
Mary  would  have  it ;  and  this  Gardiner 

follows  ; 
The  unity  of  Universal  Hell, 
Philip  would  have  it;  and  this  Gar- 
diner follows ! 
A  Parliament  of  imitative  apes  ! 
Sheep    at    the    gap    which    Gardiner 

takes,  who  not 
Believes  the  Pope,  nor  any  of  them  be- 
lieve— 
These  spaniel-Spaniard  English  of  the 

time. 
Who  rub  their  fawning  noses  in  the 

dust. 
For  that  is    Philip's    gold-dust,    and 

adore 
This  Vicar  of  their  Vicar.     Would  I 

had  been 
Born  Spaniard !    I  had  held  my  head 

up  then. 
I  am  ashamed  that  I  am  Bagenhall, 
English. 

Enter  Officer. 
Officer.  Sir  Ralph  Bagenhall. 
Bagenhall.  What  of  that.? 

Ojfcer.  You  were  the  one  sole  man 
in  either  house 
Who  stood   upright  when    both    the 
houses  fell. 
Bagenhall.  The  houses  fell ! 
Officer.  I  mean  the  houses  kne^f 

Before  the  Legate. 
Bagejihall.       Do    not    scrimp   youi 
phrase. 
But  stretch  it  wider;  say  when  Eng- 
land fell. 
Officer,      I   say  you   were   the   one 

sole  man  who  stood. 
Bagenhall.     I  am   the  one  sole  maq 
in  either  house. 


576 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Perchance  in  England,  loves  her  like 
a  son. 
Officer.    Well,  you  one  man,  because 
you  stood  upright, 
Her  Grace  the  Queen  commands  you 

to  the  Tower. 
;   Bagenhall.  As  traitor,  or  as  heretic, 
\       or  for  what  ? 
Officer.     If    any  man    in    any  way 
would  be 
The  one   man   he   shall  be  so  to  his 
cost. 
Bagenhall.   What  I  will  she  have  my 

head  ? 
Officer.       A  round  fine  likelier. 
Your  pardon.        [Calling  to  Attendant 
By  the  river  to  the  Tower. 
[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— WHITEHALL.      A 
ROOM  IN  THE  PALACE. 

Mary,  Gardiner,  Pole,  Paget,  Bon- 
ner, etc. 

Mary.    The  king  and  I,  my  Lords, 

now  that  all  traitors 
Against  our  royal  state  have   lost  the 

heads 
Wherewith  they  plotted  in  their  trea- 
sonous malice. 
Have   talk'd   together,  and   are   well 

agreed 
That  "those  old  statutes  touching  Lol- 

lardism 
To  bring   the    heretic  to  the    stake, 

should  be 
No  longer  a  dead  letter,  but  requick- 

en'd. 
One  of  the  Council.  Why,  what  hath 

fluster'd  Gardiner  ?  how  he  rubs 
His  forelock. 
Paget.  I  have  changed  a  word  with 

him 
In  coming,  and  may  change  a  word 

again. 
Gardiner.  Madam,  your    Highness 

is  our  sun,  the  King 
And  you  together  our  two  suns  in  one  ; 
And  so  the  beams  of  both  may  shine 

upon  us, 


The  faith   that  seem'd  to  droop  \vill 

feel  your  light, 
Lift  head,  and  flourish ;  yet  not  light 

alone, 
There  must  be   heat — there  must  be 

heat  enough 
To  scorch  and   wither  heresy  to  the 

root. 
For  what    saith    Christ }      "  Compel 

them  to  come  in," 
And  what  saith  Paul }     "  I  would  they 

were  cut  off 
That   trouble   you."      Let    the    dead 

letter  live! 
Trace   it  in   fire,  that  all  the  louts  to 

whom 
Their  ABC  is  darkness,  clowns  and 

grooms 
May  read  it !    so  you  quash   rebellion 

too. 
For  heretic  and  traitor  are  all  one ; 
Two  vipers  of  one  breed — an  amphis- 

boena. 
Each  end  a  sting  :  Let  the  dead  letter 

burn  ! 
Paget.  Yet  there   be  some  disloyal 

Catholics, 
And    many    heretics    loyal :     heretic 

throats 
Cried   no  God-bless-her  to  the  Lady 

Jane, 
But  shouted  in  Queen  Mary.     So  there 

be 
Some  traitor-heretic,  there  is  axe  and 

cord. 
To  take  the  lives  of  others  that  are 

loyal, 
And  by  the  churchman's  pitiless  doom 

of  fire, 
Were  but  a  thankless  policy  in   the 

crown, 
Ay,  and  against  itself;  for  there   are 

many. 
Mary.  Ii   we  could  burn  out  heresy, 

my  Lord  Paget, 
We  reck  not  tho'  we  lost  this  crown  of 

England — 
Ay  !  tho'  it  were  ten  Englandsl 

Gardiner.  Right,  your  Grace. 

Paget,  you  are  all  for  this  poor  life  of 


QUEEN  MARY. 


577 


And  care  but  little  for  the  life  to  be. 
Paget.      I     have     some     time,     for 
curiousness,  my  Lord, 
Watch'd  children  playing  at  their  life 

to  be, 
And  cruel  at  it,  killing  helpless  flies; 
Such  is  our  time — all  times  for  aught 
I  know. 
Gardiner.  We  kill  the  heretics  that 
sting  the  soul — 
They,  with  right  reason,  flies  that  prick 
the  flesh. 
Paget.  They  had    not    reach'd  right 
reason ;  little  children ! 
They  kill'd  but  for  their  pleasure  and 

the  power 
They  felt  in  killing. 

Gardiner.         A  spice  of  Satan,  ha  ! 
Why,   good  !   what   then  ?  granted  !— 

we  are  fallen  creatures  ; 
Look   to   your  Bible,   Paget !  we   are 
fallen. 
Paget.  I  am   but   of    the   laity,  my 
Lord  Bishop, 
And   may  not   read  your  Bible,  yet  I 

found 
One     day     a    wholesome     scripture, 

"  Little  children, 
Love  one  another." 

Gardiner.     Did  you  find  a  scripture, 
"I    come   not  to   bring   peace   but   a 

sword  ? "     The  sword 
Is  in  her  Grace's  hand  to  smite  with. 

Paget, 
You  stand  up  here  to  fight  for  heresy. 
You   are   more   than   guess'd  at  as  a 

heretic. 
And  on  the  steep-up  track  of  the  true 

faith 
Your  lapses  are  far  seen. 

Paget.  The  faultless  Gardiner  ! 

Mary.  You  brawl  beyond  the  ques- 
tion ;  speak.  Lord  Legate. 
».  Pole,  indeed,  I  cannot  follow  with 
your  Grace, 
ither  would  say— the  shepherd  doth 
not  kill 
*he  sheep  that  wander  from  his  flock, 

but  sends 
lis  careful  dog  to  bring  them  to  the 
fold. 


Look    to    the    Netherlands,   wherein 

have  been 
Such   holocausts   of  heresy !   to  what 

end } 
For  yet  the  faith  is   not  established 

there. 
Gardiner.  The  end's  not  come. 
Pole.      No — nor  this  way  will  come. 
Seeing   there  lie  two  ways  to  every 

end, 
A  better  and  a  worse — the   worse  is 

here 
To  persecute,  because  to  persecute 
Makes  a  faith  hated,  and  is  further- 
more 
No  perfect  witness  of  a  perfect  faith 
In  him  who  persecutes  :  when  men  are 

tost 
On  tides  of  strange   opinion,  and  not 

sure 
Of  their   own   selves,  they  are  wroth 

with  their  own  selves. 
And  thence   with  others ;  then    who 

lights  the  fagot  ? 
Not  the  full  faith,  no,  but  the  lurking 

doubt. 
Old  Rome,  that  first  made  martyrs  in 

the  Church, 
Trembled  for  her  own  gods,  for  these 

were  trembling — 
But  when  did  our  Rome  tremble  ? 

Paget.  Did  she  not 

In  Henry's  time  and  Edward's } 

Pole.  What,  my  Lord! 

The  Church  on  Peter's  rock i*  never! 

I  have  seen 
A  pine  in  Italy  that  cast  its  shadow 
Athwart  a  cataract ;    firm   stood    the 

pine — 
The  cataract  shook  the  shadow.     To 

my  mind. 
The    cataract    typed    the    headlong 

plunge  and  fall 
Of  heresy  to  the   pit:  the  pine  was 
t      Rome. 
You  see,  my  Lords, 
It  was  the  shadow  of  the  Church  that 

trembled ; 
Your  church  was  but  the  shadow  of  ^ 

church, 
Wanting  the  triple  mitre.  , 


578 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Gardiney      {muttering).      Here     he 

tropes. 
Pole,  And  tropes  are  good  to  clothe 
a  naked  truth, 

And  make  it  look  more  seemly. 

Gardiner.  Tropes  again  ! 

Pole.  You  are  hard  to  please.  Then 
without  tropes,  my  Lorc|, 

An  overmuch  severeness,  I  repeat, 

When  faith  is    wavering    makes  the 
waverer  pass 

Into  more  settled  hatred  of  the   doc- 
trines 

Of  those  who  rule,  which  hatred  by 
and  by 

Involves  the  ruler  (thus  there  springs 
to  light 

That  Centaur  of  a  monstrous  Com- 
monweal, 

The  traitor-heretic),  then    tho'   some 
may  quail,  [fire, 

Yet  others  are  that  dare  the  stake  and 

And    their    strong    torment,  bravely 
borne,  begets 

An  admiration  and  an  indignation, 

And   hot    desire   to   imitate ;    so  the 
plague 

Of  schism  spreads;   were  there  but 
three  or  four 

Of  these  misleaders,  yet  I  would  not 
say 

Burn !    and  we    cannot    burn    whole 
towns ;  they  are  many, 

As  my  Lord  Paget  says. 

Ga7-di7ter.     Yet  my  Lord  Cardinal — 
Pole.  I  am  your  Legate ;  please  you 
let  me  finish. 

Methinks  that  under  our  Queen's  reg- 
imen 

We  might  go  softlier  than  with  crim- 
son rowel 

And  streaming  lash.    When   Herod- 
Henry  first 

Ikgan    to    batter    at    your    English 
Church, 

This  was   the  cause,   and  hence   the 
judgment  on  her. 

She  seethed  with  such  adulteries,  and 
the  lives 

Of  many  among  your  churchmen  were 
so  foul, 


That  heaven  wept  and  earth  blush*d. 

I  would  advise 
That  we  should  thoroughly  cleanse  the 

Church  within 
Before  these  bitter  statutes  be  requick- 

ened. 
vSo  after  that  when  she  once  more  is  seen 
White  as  the  light,  the  spotless  bride 

of  Christ, 
Like  Christ  himself  on  Tabor,  possibly 
The    Lutheran   may  be    won    to   her 

again ;  [ance- 

Till  when,  my  Lords,  I  counsel  toler- 

Gardifter.  What  if    a  mad  dog  bit 

your  hand,  my  Lord, 
Would  vou  not  chop  the  bitten  finger 

off,' 
Lest  your  whole  body  should  madden 

with  the  poison  ? 
I  would  not,  were  I  Queen,  tolerate  the 

heretic, 
No,  not  an  hour.    The  ruler  of  a  land 
Is  bounden  by  his  power  and  place  to 

see 
His  people  be  not  poison'd.    Tolerate 

them ! 
Why.?    do  they   tolerate  you?    Nay, 

many  of  them 
Would  burn — have  burnt  each  other ; 

call  they  not 
The  one  true  faith  a  loathsome  idol- 
worship? 
Beware,    Lord   Legate,  of    a  heavier 

crime 
Than  heresy  is  itself ;  beware,  I  say, 
Lest  men  accuse  you  of  indifference 
To  all  faiths,  all  religion  ;  for  you  know 
Right  well  that  you  yourself  have  been 

supposed 
Tainted  with  Lutheranism  in  Italy. 
Pole  {angered).     But  you,  my  Lord, 

beyond  all  supposition. 
In  clear  and  open  day  were  congruent 
With  that  vileCranmer  in  the  accursed 

lie 
Of  good  Queen  Catherine's  divorce— 

the  spring 
Of  all  those  evils  that  have  flow'd  upon 

us; 
For  you  yourself  have  truckled  to  the 

tyrant. 


And  done  your  best  to  bastardize  our 

Queen, 
For  which  God's  righteous  judgment 

fell  upon  you 
In   your   five  years   of  imprisonment, 

my  Lord, 
Under  young  Edward.     Who  so  bol- 

ster'd  up 
The   gross   King's    headship    of    the 

Church,  or  more 
Denied  the  Holy  Father ! 

Gardiner.  Ha  !  what !  eh  ? 

But  you,  my  Lord,  a  polish'd  gentle- 
man, 
A  bookman,  flying  from  the  heat  and 

tussle. 
You    lived    among    your    vines    and 

oranges. 
In  your  soft  Italy  yonder !  you  were 

sent  for. 
You  were  appeal'd  to,  but  you  still  pre- 

ferr'd 
Your  learned  leisure.     As  for  what  I 

did 
I  suffer'd  and  repented.     You,  Lord 

Legate 
And  Cardmal-Deacon,  have  not  now  to 

learn 
That  ev'n  St.  Peter  in  his  time  of  fear 
Denied  his  Master,  ay,  and  thrice,  my 

Lord. 
Pole.  But    not  for  five    and  twenty 

years,  my  Lord. 
Gardiner.  Ha  !  good !  it  seems  then 

I  was  sommon'd  hither 
But  to  be  mock'd  and  baited.     Speak, 

friend  Bonner, 
And  tell  this  learned  Legate  he  lacks 

zeal. 
The  Church's  evil  is  not  as  the  King's, 
Cannot   be   heal'd  by   stroking.     The 

mad  bite 
Must  have  the  cautery — tell  him — and 

at  once. 
What  wouldst  thou  do  hadst  thou  his 

power,  thou 
That  layest  so  long  in  heretic  bonds 

with  me. 
W^ouldst  thou  not  burn  and  blast  them 

root  and  branch  ? 
Bonner.  Ay,  after  you,  my  Lord. 


Gardiner.  Nay,  God's  passion,  be- 
fore me !  speak. 
Bonner.  I  am    on   fire    until  I  see 

them  flame. 
Gardiner.     Ay,    the     psalm-singing 
weavers,  cobblers,  scum — 

But  this  most  noble  prince  Plantagenet, 

Our    good   Queen's    cousin — dallying 
over  seas 

Even  when  his  brother's,  nay,  his  noble 
mother's, 

Head  fell— 

Pole.  Peace,  mad  man ! 

Thou  stirrest  up  a  grief  thou  canst  not 
fathom. 

Thou    Christian    Bishop,   thou    Lord 
Chancellor 

Of  England  !  no  more  rein  upon  thine 
anger 

Than   any   child  !      Thou   mak'st  me 
much  ashamed  [thee. 

That   I  was  for  a  moment  wroth   at 
Mary.    '   come  for  counsel  and  ye 
give  me  feuds, 

Like  dogs  that  set  to  watch  their  mas- 
ter's gate. 

Fall,  when  the  thief  is  ev'n  within  the 
walls, 

To  worrying  one  another.     My  Lord 
Chancellor, 

You  have  an  old  trick  of  offending  us : 

And  but  that  you  are  art  and  part  with 
us  [this 

In  purging  heresy,  well  we  might,  for 

Your  violence  and  much  roughness  to 
the  Legate, 

Have   shut  you  from    our    counsels 
Cousin  Pole, 

You  are  fresh  from  brighter  lands.    Re- 
tire with  me.  [us) 

His  highness  and  myself  (so  you  allow 

Will  let  you  learn  in  peace  and  pri- 
vacy 

What  power  this  cooler  sun  of  Eng- 
land hath 

In  breeding    Godless    vermin.      And 
pray  Heaven 

That  you  may  see   according  to  ou< 
sight. 

Come,  cousin. 

[Exeuni  Queen  and  Pole,  etc 


58o 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Gardiner.  Pole  has  the  Plantagenet 
face, 
But  not   the   force   made    them    our 

mightiest  kings. 
Fine    eyes  —  but   melancholy,   irreso- 
lute— 
A  fine  beard,  Bonner,  a  very  full  fine 
beard.  [ha? 

But  a  weak  mouth,  an  indeterminate — 
Bonner.  Well,   a  weak  mouth,  per- 
chance. 
Gardiner.  And  not  like  thine 

To  gorge  a  heretic  whole,  roasted  or 
raw. 
Bonner.  I'd  do  my  best,  my  Lord  ; 
but  yet  the  Legate 
Is   here   as   Pope   and  Master  of  the 

Church, 
And  if  he  go  not  with  you — 

Gardiner.  Tut,  Master  Bishop, 

Our  bashful  Legate,  saw'st  not  how  he 

flush'd  ? 
Touch  him  upon  his  old  heretical  talk, 
He'll  burn  a  diocese  to  prove  his  or- 
thodoxy. 
And  let  him    call  me  truckler.     In 

those  times, 
Thou   knowest  we  had  to  dodge,  or 

duck,  or  die ; 
I    kept  my  head    for  use    of    Holy 

Church ; 
And  see  you,  we  shall  have  to  dodge 

again. 
And  let  the  Pope  trample  our  rights, 

and  plunge 
His  foreign  fist  into  our  island  Church 
To  plump  the  leaner  pouch  of  Italy. 
For  a  time,  for  a  time. 
Wh)^?  that  these  statutes  may  be  put 

in  force. 
And    that    his    fan    may   thoroughly 
purge  his  floor. 
Bonner.    So    then    you    hold    the 

Pope — 
Gardiner.  I  hold  the  Pope  ! 

What  do  I  hold  him  1  what  do  I  hold 

the  Pope  ? 
Come,   come,  the  morsel  stuck — this 

Cardinal's  fault — 
I   have   gulpt  it  down.     I  am  wholly 
for  the  Pope, 


Utterly  and  altogether  for  the  Pope, 
The  Eternal  Peter  of  the  changeless 

chair, 
Crown'd  slave   of  slaves,  and  mitred 

king  of  kings, 
God   upon  earth !    what  more  ?    what 

would  you  have  ? 
Hence,  let's  be  gone. 

Enter  USHER. 

Usher.      Well  that  you  be  not  gone, 
My   Lord.     The   Queen,   most  wroth 

at  first  with  you, 
Is  now  content  to  grant  you  full  for- 
giveness, 
So  that  you  crave  full  pardon  of  the 

Legate. 
I  am  sent  to  fetch  you. 

Gardiner.     Doth  Pole  yield,  sir,  ha ! 
Did  you  hear  'em  .-*  were  you  by  ? 

Usher.  I  cannot  tell  you, 

His  bearing  is  so  courtly-delicate  ; 
And  yet  methinks  he  falters ;  their  two 

Graces 
Do  so  dear-cousin    and    royal-cousin 

him. 
So  press  on  him  the  duty  which  as 

Legate 
He  owes  himself,  and  with  such  royal 

smiles — 
Gardiner.    Smiles    that   burn  men 

Bonner,  it  will  be  carried. 
He  falters,  ha  ?  'fore  God  we  change 

and  change ; 
Men  now  are  bow'd  and  old,  the  doc- 
tors tell  you, 
At  threescore  years ;  then  if  we  change 

at  all 
We  needs  must  do  it  quickly ;  it  is  an 

age 
Of  brief  life,  and  brief  purpose,  and 

brief  patience. 
As  I  have   shown  to-day.     I  am  sorry 

for  it 
If  Pole  be  like  to  turn.     Our  old  friend 

Cranmer, 
Your  more  especial  love,  hath  turn'd 

so  often. 
He  knows  not  where  he  stand?  whichf 

if  this  pass. 


QUEEN  MAR  V. 


S8i 


We  too  shall  have  to  teach  him;  let 
'em  look  to  it, 

Cranmer  and  Hooper,  Ridley  and  Lat- 
imer, 

Rogers  and  Ferrar,  for  their  time  is 
come, 

Their  hour  is  hard  at  hand,  their 
"  dies  Irae," 

Their  "  dies  Ilia,"  which  will  test  their 
sect. 

I  feel  it  but  a  duty — you  will  find  in  it 

Pleasure  as  well  as  duty,  worthy  Bon- 
ner,— 

To  test  their  sect.  Sir,  I  attend  the 
Queen 

To  crave  most  humble  pardon — of  her 
most 

Roval,  Infallible,  Papal  Legate-cousin. 
[Exeuni, 

SCENE  v.— WOODSTOCK. 

Elizabeth,  Lady  in  Waiting. 

Lady.  The  colors  of  our  Queen  are 
green  and  white, 
These  fields  are  only  green,  they  make 
me  gape. 
Elizabeth.  There's  whitethorn,  girl. 
Lady.  Ay,  for  an  hour  in  May. 

But  court  is  always  May,  buds  out  in 

masks. 
Breaks  into  feather'd  merriments,  and 

flowers 
In    silken  pageants.      Why  do  they 

keep  us  here  ? 
Why  still  suspect  your  Grace  ? 
Elizabeth.  Hard  upon  both. 

[  Writes  on  the  window  with  a  dia- 
mond. 

'-  Much  suspected,  of  me 

Nothing  proven  can  be. 
Quoth  Elizabeth,  prisoner. 

Lady.  What   hath    your    Highness 

written  "i 
Elizabeth.   A  true  rhyme. 
Lady.  Cut  with  a  diamond;   so  to 

last  like  truth. 
Elizabeth.  Ay,  if  truth  last. 
iMdy.  But  truth,  they  say,  will  out, 


So  it  must  last.     It  is  not  like  a  word. 
That  comes  and  goes  in  uttering. 

Elizabeth.  Truth,  a  word! 

The  very  Truth  and  very  Word  are 

one. 
But  truth  of  story,  which  I  glanced  at, 

girl, 
Is  like  a  word  that  comes  from  olden 

days, 
And  passes  thro'  the  peoples :    every 

tongue 
Alters    it  passing,  till  it  spells    and 

speaks 
Quite  other  than  at  first. 
Lady.  I  do  not  follow. 

Elizabeth.     How  many  names  in  the 

long  sweep  of  time 
That  so  foreshortens  greatness,  may 

but  hang 
On  the  chance  mention  of  some  fool 

that  once 
Brake   bread  with   us,  perhaps;    and 

my  poor  chronicle 
Is  but  of  glass.     Sir  Henry  Beding- 

field 
May  split  it  for  a  spite. 

Lady.  God  grant  it  last, 

And  witness  to    your  Grace's    inno- 
cence. 
Till  doomsday  melt  it 

Elizabeth.  Or  a  second  fire, 

Like  that  which  lately  crackled  under- 
foot 
And   in   this  very  chamber,  fuse  the 

glass. 
And  char  us  back  again  into  the  dust 
We     spring    from.      Never    peacock 

against  rain 
Scream'd  as  you  did  for  water. 

Lady.  And  I  got  it. 

I  woke  Sir  Henry — and  he's  true  to 

you — 
I  read  his  honest  horror  in  his  eyes. 
Elizabeth.  Or  true  to  you  ? 
Lady.  Sir  Henry  Bedingfield  ! 

I  will  h^ve  no  man  true  to  me,  your 

Grace, 
But  one  that  pares  his  nails ;  to  me  ? 

the  clown ! 
For,  like  his  cloak,  his  manners  want 

the  nap 


582 


QUEEN  MARY. 


And  gloss  of  court ;  but  of  this  fire  he 

says, 
Nay  swears,  it  \fas  no  wicked  wilful- 
ness, 
Only  a  natural  chance. 

Elizabeth.  A  chance — perchance 

One  of  those  wicked  wilfuls  that  men 

make, 
Nor  shame  to  call  it  nature.     Nay,  I 

know 
They   hunt   my  blood.     Save  for  my 

daily  range 
Among   the   pleasant  fields    of  Holy 

Writ 
I  might  despair.     But  there  hath  some 

one  come ; 
The  house  is  all  in  movement.     Hence, 

and  see.  \Exit  Lady. 

Milkmaid  {singing  withoui). 

Shame  upon  you,  Robin, 

Shame  upon  you  now ! 
Kiss  me  would  you  ?  with  my  hands 

Milking  the  cow  ? 

Daisies  grow  again. 

Kingcups  blow  again, 
And  you  came  and  kiss'd  me  milking  the  cow. 

Robin  came  behind  me, 

Kiss'd  me  well  I  vow  ; 
Cuff  him  could  I  ?  with  my  hands 

Milking  the  cow? 

Swallows  fly  again, 

Cuckoos  cry  again, 
And  you  came  and  kiss'd  me  milking  the  cow. 

Come,  Robin,  Robin, 

Come  and  kiss  me  now  ; 
Help  it  can  I  ?  with  my  hands 

Milking  the  cow  ? 

Ringdoves  coo  again. 

All  things  woo  again. 
Come  behind  and  kiss  me  milking  the  cow ! 

Elizabeth.  Right  honest  and  red- 
cheek'd;  Robin  was  violent. 

And  she  was  crafty — a  sweet  violence. 

And  a  sweet  craft.  I  would  I  were  a 
milkmaid. 

To  sing,  love,  marry,  churn  brew, 
bake,  and  die, 

Then  have  my  simple  headstone  by 
the  church. 

And  all  things  lived  and  ended  hon- 
estly. 

I  could  not  if  I  would.  I  am  Harry's 
daughter  ; 


Gardiner  would  have  my  head.     Thej 

are  not  sweet. 
The  violence  and  the  craft  that  do  di> 

vide 
The   world   of  nature;  what   is   weak 

must  lie; 
The  lion  needs  but  roar  to  guard  his 

young  ; 
The  lapwing  lies,  says  **  here  "  when 

they  are  there. 
Threaten  the  child;  *'I'll  scourge  you 

if  you  did  it." 
What  weapon  hath  the  child,  save  his 

soft  tongue, 
To  say  "  I   did  not  ? "  and  my  rod's 

the  block. 
I  never  lay  my  head  upon  the  pillow 
But  that  I  think,  "  Wilt  thou  lie  there 

to-morrow  ? "  [fell. 

How   oft   the    falling   axe,  that  never 
Hath  shock'd  me  back  into  the   day- 
light truth 
That  it  may  fall  to-day !     Those  damp, 

black,  dead 
Nights  in  the  Tower ;  dead — with  the 

fear  of  death — 
Too  dead  ev'n  for  a  death-watch !    Toll 

of  a  bell. 
Stroke  of  a  clock,  the  scurrying  of  a 

rat 
Affrighted  me,  and  then  delighted  me, 
For  there  was  life — And  there  was  life 

in  death — 
The  little   murder'd  princes,  in  a  pale 

light. 
Rose    hand   in   hand,    and  whisper'd 

**  come  away, 
The  civil  wars  are  gone  forevermorc : 
Thou   last   of  all   the   'J'udors,   come 

away. 
With   us   in   peace!"     The   last?     It 

was  a  dream  ; 
I  must  not  dream,  not  wink,  but  watch. 

She  has  gone. 
Maid  Marian  to  her  Robin — by  and  by 
Both  happy  !  a  fox  may  filch  a  hen  by 

night, 
And   make  a  morning   outcry  in    the 

yard: 
But  there's  no  Renard  here  to  "  catcb 

her  tripping." 


1^ 


QUEEN  MARY. 


583 


Catch  me  who  can ;  yet  sometime  I 
have  wish'd 

That  I  were  caught,  and  kill'd  away  at 
once 

Out  of  the  flutter.  The  gray  rogue, 
Gardiner, 

Went  on  his  knees,  and  pray'd  me  to 
confess 

In  Wyatt's  business,  and  to  cast  my- 
self 

Upon  the  good  Queeu's  mercy ;  ay, 
when,  my  Lord  ? 

God  save  the  Queen.     My  jailer — 

Enter  SiR  HENRY  Bedingfield. 

Bedingfield.  One,  whose  bolts, 

That  jail  you  from  free  life,  bar  you 

from  death. 
There  haurft  some  Papist  ruffians  here- 
about 
Would  murder  you. 

Elizabeth.     I  thank  you  heartily,  sir, 
But  I  am  royal,  tho'  your  prisoner, 
And  God  hath  blest  or  cursed  me  with 

a  nose — 
Your  boots  are  from  the  horses. 

Bedingfield.  Ay,  my  Lady. 

When  next  there  comes  a  missive  from 

the  Queen 
It  shall  be  all  my  study  for  one  hour 
To  rose  and  lavender  my  horsiness, 
Before   I   daie  to  glance  upon  your 

Grace 
Elizabeth.  A  missive  from  the  Queen : 

last  time  she  wrote, 
I  had  like  to  have  lost  my  life  :  it  takes 

my  breath  : 
O  God,  sir,  do    you  look    upon   your 

boots. 
Are  you  so  small  a  man  ?     Help  me  : 

what  think  you, 
Is  it  life  or  death  .^ 
Bedinqfield.  I    thought  not    on    my 

boots;  [made 

The  devil  take   all  boots  were   ever 
Since  man  went  barefoot.     See,  I  lay 

it  here, 
For  I   will   come  no  nearer  to  your 

Grace  ;        {Laying  down  the  letter. 
And  whether  it  bring  you  bitter  news 

or  sweet, 


And  God  have  given  your  Grace  a 

nose,  or  not, 
I'll  help  you,  if  I  may. 

Elizabeth.  Your  pardon,  then  ? 

It  is  the  heat  and  narrowness  of  the 

cage 
That  makes  the   captive   testy;  with 

free  wing 
The  world  were  all  one  Araby.    Leave 

me  now, 
Will  you,  companion  to  myself,  sir  t 

Beddingfield.  Will  I  ? 

With   most    exceeding  willingness,  I 

will ; 
You  know  I  never  come  till  I  be  call'd. 

{Exit. 
Elizabeth.     It  lies  there  folded  ;   is 
there  venom  in  it  ? 
A  snake — and  if  I   touch  it,  it  may 

sting. 
Come,  come,  the  worst ! 
Best  wisdom  is  to  know  the  worst  at 
once.  {Reads  .- 

"  It  is  the   King's    wish   that   you 
should  wed  Prince  Philibert  of  Savoy. 
You  are  to  come  to  Court  on  the  in- 
stant ;  and  think  of  this  in  your  coming. 
"  Mary  the  Queen." 

Think  1  I  have  many  thoughts  ; 

I  think  there  may  be  birdlime  here  for 

me ; 
I  think  they  fain  would  have  me  from 

the  realm  ; 
I  think  the  Queen  mav  never  bear  a 

child  ; 
I   think  that  I  may  be  sometime  the 

Queen, 
Then,  Queen  indeed  :  no  foreign  prince 

or  priest 
Should  fill  my  throne,  myself  upon  the 

steps. 
I  think  I  will  not  marry  any  one, 
Specially  not  this  landless  Philibert 
Of  Savoy ;  but,  if  Philip  menace  me, 
I  think  that  I  will  play  with  Philibert,— 
As  once  the  holy  father  did  with  mine. 
Before   my  father   married  my  good 

mother. — 
For  fear  of  Spain. 


584 


QUEEN  MARY, 


Enter  Lady. 
Lady.  O   Lord  I    your   Grace,  your 
Grace, 
I  feel   so  happy  :    it  seems  that  we 

shall  fly 
These  bald,  blank  fields,  and  dance 

into  the  sun 
That  shines  on  princes. 

Elizabeth.  Yet,  a  moment  since, 

I  wish'd  myself  the  milkmaid  singing 

here, 
To  kiss  and  cuff  among  the  birds  and 

flowers — 
A  right  rough  life  and  healthful. 

Lady.  But  the  wench 

Hath  her  own  troubles  \  she  is  weep- 
ing now; 
For  the  wrong  Robin  took  her  at  her 

word. 
Then  the  cow  kick'd,  and  all  her  milk 

was  spilt. 
Your  Highness  such  a  milkmaid  ? 

Elizabeth.  I  had  kept 

My   Robins  and  my  cows  in  sweeter 

order 
Had  I  been  such. 
Lady  {siyly).  And  had  your  grace  a 

Robin. 
Elizabeth.  Come,  come,  you  are  chill 
here  ;  you  want  the  sun 
Tha-t  shines  at  court ;  make,  ready  for 

the  journey. 
Pray  God,  we  'scape  the  sunstroke. 
Ready  at  once.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VL— LONDON.    A  ROOM 
IN  THE  PALACE. 

Lord  Petre   ajtd   Lord    William 
Howard. 
Fetre.  You  cannot  see  the  Queen. 
Renard  denied  her, 
Ev'n  now,  to  me. 

Howard.    Their  Flemish  go-between 
And  all' in-all.     I  came  to  thank  her 

Majesty 
For  freeing  my  friend  Bagenhall  from 

the  Tower ; 
A  grace   to  me!     Mercy,   that  herb- 

of-grace, 
Flowers  now  but  seldom. 


Petre.  Only  now,  perhaps, 

Because  the   Queen   hath  been  three 

days  in  tears 
For  Philip's  going — like  the  wild  hedge- 

rose 
Of  a  soft  winter,   possible,  not  prob< 

able. 
However,  you  have  prov'n  it. 
Howard.  I  must  see  hei 

Etiter  Renard. 

Renard.  My  Lords,  you  cannot  see 

her  Majesty. 
Howard.  Why  then  the  King  !  for  I 

would  have  him  bring  it 
Home  to"  the   leisure   wisdom   of   his 

Queen, 
Before  he  go,  that  since  th^se  statutes 

past, 
Gardiner  out-Gaidiners    Gardiner   in 

his  heat, 
Bonner  cannot  out-Bonner    his    own 

self- 
Beast! — but    they  play  with    fire    as 

children  do, 
And   burn  the   house.     I   know   that 

these  are  breeding 
A  fierce  resolve  and  fixt  heart-hate  in 

men 
Against    the    King,  the    Queen,  tiie 

Holy  Father, 
The  faith  itself.     Can  I  not  see  him  ? 
Renard.  Not  now. 

And  in  all  this,  my  Lord,  her  Majes'^^y 
Is  flint   of  flint,  you  may  strike   fiie 

from  her, 
Not  hope  to  melt  her.     I  will  give 

your  message. 

{ExeuntVKTKE.and  Howard. 

^«/^r  Philip  {musing) 

Philip.  She    will   not  have    Prince 

Philibert  of  Savoy, 
I  talk'd  with  her  in  vain — she  says  she 

will  live 
And  die  true  maid— a  goodly  creature 

too. 
Would  j/^<f  had  been  the  Queen!  yet 

she  must  have  him  ; 
She     troubles     England :    that     she 

breathes  in  England 


QUEEN  MARY. 


58s 


Is  life  and  lungs  to  every  rebel  birth 
That  passes  out  of  embryo. 

Simon  Renarcl ! — 
This   Howard,  whom  they  fear,  what 
was  he  saying? 
Renard.  What  your  imperial  father 
said,  my  liege, 
To  deal  with  heresy  gentlier.     Gardi- 
ner burns, 
And    Bonner   burns  :    and    it    would 

seem  this  people 
Caie  more  for  our  brief  life   in  their 

wet  land, 
Than  yours  in  happier  Spain.     I  told 

my  Lord 
He  should  not  vex  her  Highness  ;  she 

would  say 
These  are  the  means  God  works  with, 

that  his  church 
May  flourish. 

Philip.  Ay,  sir,  but  in  statesmanship 
To  strike  too  soon  is  oft  to  miss  the 

blow. 
Thou  knowest  I   bade    my  chaplain, 

Castro,  preach 
Against  these  burnings. 

Ke7iard.  And  the  Emperor 

Approved  you,  and  when  last  he  wrote, 

declared 
His  comfort  in  your  Grace  that  you 

were  bland 
And  affable  to  men  of  all  estates, 
In  hope  to  charm  them  from  their  hate 

of  Spain. 
Philip.  In  hope  to  crush  all  heresy 

under  Spain. 
But,  Renard,  I  am  sicker  staying  here 
Than  any  sea  could  make  me  passing 

hence, 
Tho'  I  be  ever  deadly  sick  at  sea. 
So  sick  am  I  with  biding  for  this  child. 
Is    it  the  fashion  in  this    clime  for 

women 
To  go  twelve  months  in  bearing  of  a 

child .? 
The  nurses  yawn'd,  the  cradle  gaped, 

they  led 
Processions,  chanted  litanies,  clash'd 

their  bells. 
Shot  off  their  lying  cannon,  and  her 

priests 


Have  preach'd,  the  fools,  of  this  fair 

prince  to  come. 

Till,  by   St.  James,  I  find  myself  the 

fool.  [thus? 

Why  do  you  lift  your  eyebrow  at  me 

Renard.   I  never  saw  your  Highness 

moved  till  now. 
Philip.   So,  weary  am   I  of  this  wet 
land  of  theirs. 
And  every  soul  of  man  that  breathes 
therein. 
Renard.   My  liege,  we  must  not  drop 
the  mask  before 
The  masquerade  is  over — 

Philip.  — Have  I  droptit? 

I  have  but  shown  a  loathing  face  to 

you. 
Who  knew  it  from  the  first. 

Enter  Mary. 

Mary  {aside).     With  Renard.     Still 
Parleying  with  Renard,  all  the  day  with 

Renard, 
And  scarce  a  greeting  all  the  day  for 

me — 
And  goes  to-morrow.         [Exit  Mary. 
Philip  {to  Renard,  who  advances  to 

him).  Well,  sir,  is  there  more  ? 
Renard     [who      has    perceived    the 
Queen).     May     Simon    Renard 
speak  a  single  word  ? 
Philip.  Ay. 

Renard.  And  be  forgiven  for  it  ? 
Philip.  Simond  Renard 

Knows  me  too  well  to  speak  a  single 

word 
That  could  not  be  forgiven. 

Renard.  Well,  my  liege, 

Your  Grace  hath  a  most  chaste  and 
loving  wife. 
Philip.  Why   not?    The    Queen   of 

Philip  should  be  chaste. 
Renard.  Ay,  but,  my  Lord,  you  know 
what  Virgil  sings, 
Woman  is  various  and  most  mutable. 
Philip.  She  play  the  harlot !  never. 
Renard.  No,  sire,  no« 

Not  dream'd  of  by  the  rabidest  Gos- 
peller. 
There   was  a  paper  thrown  into  the 
palace, 


586 


QUEEN  MARY. 


"  The  King  hath  wearied  of  his  barren 

bride." 
She  came  upon   it,  read  it,  and  then 

rent  it, 
With  all  the  rage  of  one  who  hates  a 

truth 
He  cannot  but  allow.     Sire,  I  would 

have  you — 
What  should  I  say,  I  cannot  pick  my 

words — 
Be  somewhat  less — majestic  to  your 

Queen. 
Philip.     Am  I  to  change  my  man- 
ners, Simon  Renard, 
Because    these    islanders    are    brutal 

beasts  "i 
Or  would  you  have    me   turn  a  son- 
neteer, 
And  warble  those  brief-sighted  eyes  of 

hers  } 
Renard.  Brief-sighted  tho'  they  be, 

I  have  seen  them,  sire, 
When    you    perchance    were    trifling 

royally  [fill 

With  some  fair  dame  of  court,  suddenly 
With  such  fierce  fire — had  it  been  fire 

indeed 
It  would  have  burnt  both  speakers. 
Philip.  Ay,  and  then  ? 

Renard.  Sire,  might  it  not  be  policy 

in  some  matter 
Of  small  importance  now  and  then  to 

cede 
A  point  to  her  demand  ? 
Philip.  Well,  I  am  going. 

Renard.  For  should  her  love,  when 

you  are  gone,  my  liege, 
Witness  these  papers,  there  will  not  be 

wanting 
Those  that  will  urge  her  injury — should 

her  love — 
And  I  have  known  such  women  more 

than  one — 
Veer  to  the  counterpoint,  and  jealousy 
Hath  in  it  an  alchemic  force  to  fuse 
Almost  into  one  metal  love  and  hate, — 
And  she  impress  her  wrongs  upon  her 

Council, 
And  these  again  upon  her  Parliament — 
We  are  not  loved  here,  and  would  be 

then  perhaps 


Not  so  well  holpen  in. our  wars  with 

France, 
As  else  we  might  be — here  she  comes. 

Enter  Mary. 
Mary.  O  Philip  ! 

Nay.  must  you  go  indeed  ? 
Philip.  Madam,  I  must. 

Mary,  The    parting   of    a  husband 
and  a  wife  [half 

Is  like  the  cleaving  of  a  heart ;   one 
Will  flutter  here,  one  there. 
Philip.  You  say  true.  Madam. 

Mary.  The    Holy   Virgin   will    not' 
have  me  yet 
Lose  the  sweet  hope  that  I  may  bear  a 

prince. 
If  such  a  prince  were  born  and  you  not 
here  ! 
Philip.  I  should  be   here  if  such  a 

prince  were  born. 
Mary.  But  must  you  go  ? 
Philip.  Madam,  you  know  my  father, 
Retiring  into  cloistral  solitude 
To  yield  the  remnant  of  his  years  to 

heaven. 
Will  shift  the  yoke  and  weight  of  all  the 

world 
From  off  his  neck  to  mine.     We  meet  ' 

at  Brussels. 
But  since  mine  absence  will  not  be  for 
long,  [me, 

Your  Majesty  shall  go  to  Dover  with 
And  wait  my  coming  back. 

Mary.  To  Dover  ?  no, 

I  am  too  feeble.     I  will  go  to  Green- 
wich, 
So  you  will  have  me  with  you ;  and 

there  watch 
All  that  is  gracious  in  the  breath  o.' 

heaven 
Draw  with  your  sails  from  our  poor 

land,  and  pass 
And  leave  me,  Philip,  with  my  prayers 
for  you. 
Philip.  And  doubtless  I  shall  profit 

by  your  prayers. 
Mary.  Methinks    that    would     ycu 
tarry  one  day  more 
(The  news  was  sudden)  I  could  mould 
myself 


To  bear  your  going  better  ;  will  you 

do  it  ? 
Philip.  Madam,  a  day  may  sink  or 

save  a  realm. 
Mary.  A  day  may  save  a  heart  from 

breaking  too. 
Philip.  Well,   Simon  Renard,  shall 

we  stop  a  day  ? 
Renard.  Your  Grace's  business  will 

not  suffer,  sire, 
For  one  day  more,  so  far  as  I  can  tell, 
Philip.  Then  one  day  more  to  please 

her  Majesty. 
Mary.  The  sunshine  sweeps  across 

my  life  again. 

0  if  I  knew  you  felt  this  parting,  Philip, 
As  I  do  ! 

Philip.  By  St.  James  I  do  protest, 
Upon  the  faith  and  honor  of  a  Span- 
iard, 

1  am  vastly  grieved  to  leave  your  Maj- 

esty. 
Simon,  is  supper  ready  ? 

Renard.  Ay,  my  liege, 

I  saw  the  covers  laying. 
Philip.  Let  us  have  it. 

\Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I.— A   ROOM  IN  THE 
PALACE. 

Mary,  Cardinal  Pole. 
Mary.  What  have  you  there  ^ 
Pole.  So  please  your  Majesty, 

A  long  petition  from  the  foreign  exiles 
To  spare  the  life  of  Cranmer.     Bishop 

Thirlby, 
And  my  Lord  Paget  and  Lord  William 

Howard, 
Crave,  in  the  same  cause,   hearing  of 

your  Grace. 
Hath  he  not  written   himself — infatu- 
ated— 
To  sue  you  for  his  life  ? 

Mary.  His  life  ?     Oh,  no ; 

Not  sued  for  that — he   knows  it  were 

in  vain. 
But  so  much  of  the  anti-papal  leaven 


Works  in  him  yet,  he  hath  prayed  me 

not  to  sully 
Mine  own  prerogative,  and  degrade  the 

realm 
By  seeknig  justice  at  a  stranger's  hand 
Against  my  natural  subject.     King  and 

Queen, 
To  whom  he  owes  his  loyalty  after  God, 
Shall    these  accuse   him  to  a  foreign 

prince  } 
Death  would  not  grieve  him  more.     1 

cannot  be 
True  to  this  realm  of  England  and  the 

Pope 
Together,  says  the  heretic 

Pole.  And  there  errs  ; 

As  he  hath  ever  err'd  thro'  vanity. 
A  secular  kingdom  is  but  as  the  body 
Lacking  a  soul ;  and  in  itself  a  beast. 
The  Holy  Father  in  a  secular  kingdom 
Is  as  the  soul  descending  out  of  heaven 
Into  a  body  generate. 
Mary.  Write  to  him,  then. 

Pole.  I  will. 

Mary.  And  sharply,  Pole. 
Pole.  Here  comes  the  Cranmerites! 

Enter  Thirlby,  Lord  Paget,  Lord 

William  Howard. 

Howard.     Health    to    your    Grace. 

Good-morrow,  my  Lord  Cardinal; 

We  make  our  humble  prayer  unto  your 

Grace 
That  Cranmer  may  withdraw  to  foreign 

parts. 
Or  into  private  life  within  the  realm. 
In     several    bills     and     declarations, 

Madam, 
He  hath  recanted  all  his  heresies. 
Paget.     Ay,  ajp;  if  Bonner  have  not 
forged  the  bills.  {Aside. 

Mary.    Did     not    More     die,    and 

Fisher  ?  he  must  burn. 
Harvard.    He  hath  recanted,  Madam. 
Mary.  The  better  for  him, 

He  burns  in  Purgatory,  not  in  Hell. 
Howard.  Ay,  ay,  your   Grace;    out 
it  was  never  seen 
That  any  one  recanting  thus  at  full. 
As  Cranmer  hath,  came  to  the  fire  oc 
earth. 


588 


QUEEN-  MARY, 


Mary.  It  will  be  seen  now,  then. 
Thirlby.  O  Madam,  Madam  ! 

I  thus    implore   you,    low    upon    my 

knees. 
To   reach    the   hand  of  mercy  to  my 

friend. 
I  have  err'd  with  him ;  with  him  I  have 

recanted. 
What  human  reason  is  there  why  my 

friend 
Should  meet  with  lesser  mercy  than 

myself  .-* 
Mary.  My  Lord  of  Ely,  this.  After 

a  riot 
We  hang  the  leaders,  let  their  follow- 
ing go. 
Cranmer  is  head  and  father  of  these 

heresies,  God 

New  learning  as  they  call  it;  yea,  may 
Forget  me  at  most  need  when  I  forget 
Her  foul  divorce — my  sainted  mother 

— No!— 
Howard.  Ay,  ay,  but  mighty  doctors 

doubted  there. 
The  Pope  himself  waver'd ;  and  more 

than  one 
Row'd  in  that  galley — Gardiner  to  wit, 
Whom  truly  I  deny  not  to  have  been 
Your  faithful  friend  and  trusty  coun- 
cillor. 
Hath  not  your  Highness  ever  read  his 

book. 
His  tractate  upon  True  Obedience, 
Writ  by  himself  and  Bonner  ,'' 

Mary.  I  will  take 

Such  order  with  all  bad,  heretical  books 
That  none  shall  hold  them  in  his  house 

and  live. 
Henceforward.     No,  my  Lord. 

/Icnuard.  Then  never  read  it. 

The  truth  is  here.     Your  father  was  a 

man 
Of    such    colossal    kinghood,   yet   so 

courteous, 
Except  when  wroth,  you  scarce  could 

meet  his  eye 
And   hold   your   own ;    and   were    he 

wroth  indeed. 
You  held  it  less,  or  not  at  all.     I  say, 
Your  father  had  a  will  that  beat  men 

down  ; 


Your  father  had  a  brain  that  beat  men 

down — 
Pole.  Not  me,  my  Lord. 
Howard.      No,    for    you    were    nofi 

here; 
You  sit  upon  this  fallen    Cranmer's 

throne ; 
And  it  would  more  become  you,  my 

Lord  Legate, 
To  join  a  voice,  so  potent  with  her 

Highness, 
To  ours  in  plea  for  Cranmer  than  to 

stand 
On  naked  self-assertion. 

Mary.  All  your  voices 

Are  waves  on  flint     The  heretic  must 

burn. 
Howard.    Yet  once  he  saved  your 

Majesty's  own  life ; 
Stood  out  against  the  King  in  your  be- 
half. 
At  his  own  peril. 

Mary.  I  know  not  if  he  did ; 

And  if  he  did  I  care  not,  my  Lord 

Howard. 
My  life  is  not  so  happy,  no  such  boon, 
That  I  should  spare  io  take  a  heretic 

priest's. 
Who  saved  it  or  not  saved.     Why  do 

you  vex  me  ? 
Paget.  Yet  to  save  Cranmer  were  to 

save  the  Church. 
Your  Majesty's  I  mean  ;  he  is  effaced, 
Self-blotted  out;  so   wounded  in   his 

honor, 
He  can  but  creep  down  into  some  dark 

hole. 
Like  a  hurt  beast,  and  hide  himself  and 

die ; 
But  if  you  burn  him, — well,  your  High' 

ness  knows 
The  saying,  "  Martyr's  blood — seed  of 

the  Church." 
Mary.  Of  the  true  Church ;  but  his 

is  none,  nor  will  be. 
You  are  too  politic  for  me,  my  Lord 

Paget. 
And  if  he  hath  to  /ive  so  loath'd  a  iife, 
It  were  more  merciful  to  burn  him  now. 
T'/^/WAj/.  O,  yet  relent.     O.  Madam, 

\i  you  knew  him 


As  I  do,  ever  gentle,  and  so  gracious, 
With  all  his  learning — 

Mary.  Yet  a  heretic  still 

His  learning   makes  his   burning  the 
more  just. 
Thirlby.  So  worshipt   of    all   those 
that  came  across  him  ; 
The  stranger  at  his  hearth,  and  all  his 
house — 
Mary.  His  children  and  his  concu- 
bine, belike. 
Thirlby.  To  do  him  any  wrong  was 
to  beget 
A  kindness  from  him,  for  his  heart  was 

rich, 
Of  such  fine  mould,  that  if  you  sow'd 

therein 
The  seed  of  Hate,  it  blossom'd  Charity. 
Pole.  "After  his  kind  it  costs  him 
nothing,"  there's 
An   old  world  English  adage  to  the 

point. 
These  are  but  natural  graces,  my  good 

Bishop, 
Which  in  the  Catholic  garden  are  as 

flowers. 
But  on  the  heretic  dunghill  only  weeds. 
H(nuard.  Such    weeds  make    dung- 
hills gracious.  • 
Mary.  Enough,  my  Lords. 

It  is  God's  will,  the  Holy  Father's  will, 
And  Philip's   will,  and  mine,  that  he 

should  burn. 
He  is  pronounced  anathema. 

Howard.  Farewell,  Madam, 

God  grant  you  ampler  mercy  at  your 

call 
Than  you  have  shown  to  Cranmer. 

{^Exeimt  Lords. 
Pole.  After  this, 

Vour  Grace  will  hardly  care  to  over- 
look 
This  same  petition  of  the  foreign  exiles. 
For  Cranmer's  life. 
Mary.      Make  out  the  writ  to-night. 
\^Exeu7it. 

SCENE   IT.— OXFORD.     CRAN- 
MER IN  PRISON. 

Cranmer.  Last  night,  I  dream'd  the 
fagots  were  alight, 


And  that  myself  was  fasten'd  to  tha 

stake, 
And  found  it  all  a  visionary  flame, 
Cool  as  the  light  in  old  decaying  wood; 
And  then  King  Harry  look'd  from  out 

a  cloud, 
And  bade  me  have  good  courage ;  and 

I  heard 
An  angel  cry,  "  there  is  more  joy  in 

Heaven," — 
And  after  that,  the  trumpet  of  the  dead. 
[  Trumpets  without. 
Why,  there  are  trumpets  blowing  now; 

what  is  it  t 

Enter  Father  Cole. 

Cole.  Cranmer,  I  come  to  question 
you  again;  [Faith 

Have  you  remain'd  in  the  true  Catholic 
I  left  you  in  > 

Cranmer.  In  the  true  Catholic  faith, 
^y  Heaven's  grace,  I  am  more   and 

more  confirm' d. 
Why  are  the  trumpets  blowing.  Father 
Cole } 
Cole.  Cranmer,  it  is  decided  by  the 
Council 
That  you  to-day  should  read  your  re- 
cantation 
Before    the    people    in    St.    Mary's 

Church. 
And  there  be  many  heretics  in  the  town, 
Who  loathe  you  for  your  late  return  to 

Rome, 
And  might  assail  you  passing  through 

the  street. 
And  tear  you  piecemeal :  so  you  have 
a  guard. 
Cranmer.  Or  seek  to  rescue  me.    I 

thank  the  Council. 
Cole.  Do  you  lack  any  money  "i 
Cranmer.  Nay,  why  should  I; 

The  prison  fare  is  good  enough  for  me. 
Cole.  Ay,  but  to  give  the  poor. 
Cranmer.  Hand  it  me,  then  I 

I  thank  you. 

Cole.         For  a  little  space,  farewell ; 
Until  I  see  you  in  St.  Mary's  Church. 
{Exit  Cole. 
Cranmer.  It   is    against    all  prece- 
dent to  burn 


590 


QUEEN  MARY. 


One  who  recants ;  they  mean  to  pardon 

me. 
To  give  the  poor — they  give  the  poor 

who  die. 
Well,  burn  me  or  not  burn  me,  I  am 

fixt; 
It  is  but  a  communion,  not  a  mass: 
A  holy  supper  not  a  sacrifice: 
No  man  can  make  his  Maker — Villa 

Garcia. 

Enter  Villa  Garcia. 

Villa  Garcia.     Pray  you  write  out 

this  paoer  for  me,  Cranmer. 
Crannier.  Have  I  not  writ  enough 

to  satisfy  you  "i 
Villa  Garcia.     It  is  the  last. 
Cramner.  Give  it  me,  then. 

\He  writes. 
Villa  Garcia.  Now  sign. 

Crauftier.     I   have    sign'd    enougl^ 

and  I  will  sign  no  more. 
Villa  Garcia.  It   is   no    more    than 
what  you  have  sign'd  already, 
The  public  form  thereof. 

Cranmer.  It  may  be  so ; 

I  sign  it  with  my  presence,  if  I  read  it. 

Villa  Garcia.  But  this  is  idle  of  you. 

Well,  sir,  well, 

You  are  to  beg  the  people  to  pray  for 

you;  [life  ; 

Exhort  them  to  a  pure  and  virtuous 

Declare   the    Queen's    right    to    the 

throne ;  confess 
Your  faith  before  all  hearers;  and  re- 
tract 
That  Eucharistic  doctrine  in  your  book. 
Will  you  not  sign  it  now  ? 

Cranmer.  No,  Villa  Garcia, 

I  sign  no  more.     Will  they  have  mercy 

on  me  ? 

Villa  Garcia.  Have  you  good  hopes 

of  mercy  !     So,  farewell        \Exit. 

Cranmer.  Good   hopes,   not   theirs, 

have  I  that  I  am  fixt, 

Fixt  beyond  fall ;  however,  in  strange 

hours, 
After  the  long  brain-dazing  colloquies, 
And   thousand-times    recurring    argu- 
ment 
Of  those  two  friars  ever  in  my  prison, 


When  left  alone  in  my  despondency, 
Without   a  friend,  a   book,  my  faith 

would  seem 
Dead  or   half-drown'd,  or  else  swam 

heavily 
Against  the  huge  corruptions  of  the 

Church, 
Monsters  of  mistradition,  old  enough 
To  scare  me  into  dreaming,   "what 

am  I, 
Cranmer,  against  whole  ages  .5*"  was 

it  so, 
Or  am  I  slandering  my  most  inward 

friend, 
To  veil  the  fault  of  my  most  outward 

foe — 
The  soft  and  tremulous  coward  in  the 

flesh? 

0  higher,  holier,  earlier,  purer  church, 

1  have  found  thee  and  not  leave  thee 

any  more. 
It  is  but  a  communion,  not  a  mass — 
No  sacrifice,  but  a  life-giving  feast! 
{Writes.)     So,   so;  this   will    I   say — 

thus  will  I  pray.  \Puts  tip  the  paper. 

Enter  Bonner. 

Bonner.     Good-day,      old      friend; 

what,  you  look  somewhat  worn : 
And  yet  it  is  a  day  to  test  your  health 
Ev'n  at  the  best :  I  scarce  have  spoken 

with  you 
Since  when.'* — your   degradation.     At 

your  trial 
Never  stood  up  a  bolder  man  than  you ; 
You  would  not  cap  the  Pope's  com- 
missioner— 
Your  learning,  and  your  stoutness,  and 

your  heresy, 
Dumfounded  half  of  us      So,  after  that, 
We  had  to  dis-archbishop  and  unlord, 
And  make  you  simple  Cranmer  once 

again. 
The   common  barber  dipt  your  hair, 

and  I 
Scraped  from  your  finger-points   the 

holy  oil ; 
And  worse  than  all,  you  had  to  kneel 

to  me : 
Which  was  not  pleasant  for  you,  Mas« 

ter  Cranmer. 


r- 


QUEEN  MARY. 


591 


Now  you,  that  would  not  recognize  the 

Pope, 
And  you,  that  would  not  own  the  Real 

Presence, 
Have   found  a  real   presence   in  the 

stake. 
Which  frights  you  back  into  the  an- 
cient faith; 
And  so  you  have  recanted  to  the  Pope. 
How   are  the   mighty  fallen,   Master 

Cranmer  ! 
Cranmer.    You    have    been    more 

fierce  against  the  Pope  than  I : 
But  why  fling  back  the  stone  he  strikes 

me  with  ?  \_Aside. 

0  Bonner,  if  I  ever  did  you  kindness — 
Power  hath  been  given  you  to  try  faith 

by  fire — 
Pray  you,  remembering  how  yourself 

have  changed, 
Be  somewhat  pitiful,  after  I  have  gone. 
To  the  poor  flock — to  women  and  to 

children —  [me. 

That  when  I  was  archbishop  held  with 

Boimer.  Ay — ^gentle  as  they  call  you 

— live  or  die  ! 
Pitiful  to  this  pitiful  heresy  ? 

1  must  obey  the  Queen  and  Council, 

man. 

Win  thro'  this  day  with  honor  to  your- 
self, 

And  I'll  say  something  for  you — so — 
good-by.  {^Exit. 

Cranmer.  This  hard  coarse  man  of 
old  hath  crouch'd  to  me 

Till  I  myself  was  half  ashamed  for  him. 

Enter  Thirlby. 
Weep  not,  good  Thirlby. 

Thirlby.  O.  my  Lord,  my  Lord  I 

My  heart  is  no  such  block  as  Bonner's 

is : 
Who  would  not  weep  ? 

Cnvimer.       Why  do  you  so  my-lord 
me, 
Who  am  disgraced  } 
Thirlby.  On    earth;    but  saved    in 
heaven 
By  your  recanting. 
Cranmer.     Will     they    burn     me, 
Thirlby? 


Thirlby.  Alas,  they  will ;  these  burn- 
ings will  not  help 
The  purpose  of  the  faith ;  but  my  poor 

voice 
Against  them  is  a  whisper  to  the  roar 
Of  a  spring-tide. 

Cranmer.  And  they  will  surely  burn 

me.'' 
Thirlby,     Ay ;  and  besides,  will  hare 

you  in  the  church 
Repeat  your  recantation  in  the  ears 
Of  all  men,  to  the  saving  of  their  souls, 
Before  your  execution.     May  God  help 

you 
Thro'  that  hard  hour. 
Cranmer.  And  may  God  bless  you, 

Thirlby. 
Well,  they  shall  hear  my  recantation 

there.  \^Exit  Thirlby. 

Disgraced,  dishonor'd  !  —  not  by  them^ 

indeed, 
By  mine  own  self — by  mine  own  hand ! 

0  thin-skinn'd  hand  and  jutting  veins, 

'twas  you 
That  sign'd  the  burning  of  poor  Joan 

of  Kent ; 
But  then  she  was  a  witch.    You  have 

written  much. 
But  you  were  never  raised  to  plead  for 

Frith, 
Whose  dogmas  I  have  reach'd:  he  was 

deliver'd 
To  the  secular  arm  to  burn  :  and  there 

was  Lambert ; 
Who  can  foresee  himself.?  truly  these 

burnings. 
As  Thirlby  says,  are  profitless  to  the 

burners. 
And  help  the  other  side.     You  shall 

burn  too, 
Burn  first  when  I  am  burnt. 
Fire — inch  by  inch  to  die  in  agony  I 

Latimer 
Had  a  brief  end— not  Ridley.    Hooper 

burn'd 
Three-quarters  of  an  hour.     Will  my 

fagots 
Be  wet  as  his  were  }   It  is  a  day  of  rain, 

1  will  not  muse  upon  it. 

My  fancy  takes  the  burner's  part,  and 
makes 


592 


QUEEN  MARY. 


The  fire  seem  even  crueller  than  it  is. 
No,  I  not  doubt  that  God  will  give  me 

strength, 
Albeit  I  have  denied  him. 

Enter  Soto  andNiiAK  Garcia. 

Villa  Garcia.  We  are  ready 

To   take   you   to   St.  Mary's,    Master 

Cranmer. 

Cranmer.  And  I :  lead  on  ;  ye  loose 

me  from  my  bonds.  [Exewit. 

SCENE  III.— ST.   MARY'S 
CHURCH. 

Cole  in  the  Pulpit,  LoRD  WILLIAMS 
OF  Thame  presiding.  Lord  Wil- 
liam Howard,  Lord  Paget,  and 
others.  Cranmer  enters  between 
Soto  and  Villa  Garcia,  and  the 
whole  Choir  strike  up  "  Nunc  Dimit- 
tis."  Cranmer  is  set  upon  a  Scaf- 
fold before  the  teople. 

Cole.  Behold  him — 

\A  pause  ;  people  in  the foregroimd. 
People.  Oh,  unhappy  sight ! 
First  Protestant.  See  how  the  tears 

run  down  his  fatherly  face. 
Second  Protestant.   James,  didst  thou 
ever  see  a  carrion  crow 
Stand  watching  a  sick  beast  before  he 
dies  ? 
First  Protestant.     Him   perch'd    up 
there.-*     I  wish  some  thunderbolt 
Would  make  this  Cole  a  cinder,  pulpit 
and  all. 
Cole.    Behold  him,  brethren  :  he  hath 
cause  to  weep  ! — 
So  have  we  all :  weep  with  him  if  ye 

will, 
Yet— 

It  is  expedient  for  one  man  to  die, 
Yea,  for  the   people,  lest   the    people 

die. 
Yet  wherefore  should  he  die  that  hath 

return'd 
To  the  one  Catholic  Universal  Church, 
Repentant  of  his  errors  ? 
Protestant  Murmurs.      Ay,   tell   us 
that 


Cole,  Those  of  the  wrong  side  will 

despise  the  man, 
Deeming  him  or^e  that  thro'  the  fear  of 

death 
Gave  up  his  cause,  except  he  seal  his 

faith 
In  sight  of  all  with  flaming  martyrdom. 
Cranmer.  Ay. 
Cole.  Ye  hear  him,  and  albeit  there 

may  seem 
According  to  the  canons  pardon  due 
To  him  that  so  repents,  yet  are  there 

causes 
Wherefore  our  Queen  and  Council  at 

this  time 
Adjudge  him  to  the  death.     He  hath 

been  a  traitor, 
A  shaker  and  confounder  of  the  realm : 
And  when  the  King's  divorce  was  sued 

at  Rome, 
He  here,  this  heretic  metropolitan, 
As  if  he  had  been  the  Holy  Father,  sat 
And  judged  it.     Did  I  call  him  here- 
tic? 
A    huge    heresiarch!    never    was    it 

known 
That  any  man  so  writing,  preaching 

so, 
So  poisoning  the  Church,  so  long  con- 
tinuing, 
Hath  found  his  pardon ;  therefore  he 

must  die. 
For  warning  and  example. 

Other  reasons 
There  be  for  this  man's  ending,  which 

our  Queen 
And  Council  at  this  present  deem  it 

not  expedient  to  be  known. 
Protestant  Murmurs.  I  warrant  you. 
Cole.   Take   therefore,   all,   example 

by  this  man. 
For  if   our   Holy   Queen  not  pardon 

him. 
Much  less  shall  others  in  like  cause 

escape, 
That  all  of  you,  the  highest   as  the 

lowest, 
May  learn  there  is  no  power  against 

the  Lord. 
There  stands  a  man,  once  of  so  high  df** 

gree, 


QUEEN  MARY. 


593 


Chief  prelate    of    our   Church,    arch- 
bishop, first 

In  Council,  second  person  in  the  realm, 

Friend   for  so  long  time  of  a  mighty 
King; 

And  now  ye  see   downfallen  and  de- 
based 

From   councillor   to   caitiff — fallen  so 
low, 

The  leprous  flutterings  of  the  byway 
scum 

And  offal  of  the  city  would  not  change 

Estates  with  him ;   in  brief,  so  miser- 
able. 

There   is  no  hope  of  better  left  for 
him, 

No  place  for  worse. 

Yet,  Cranmer,  be  thou  glad. 

This  is  the  work  of  God.     He  is  glori- 
fied 

In  thy  conversion :   lo !   thou   art  re- 
claim'd ; 

He  brings  thee   home:   nor  fear  but 
that  to  day 

Thou  shalt  receive  the  penitent  thief's 
award, 

And  be  with  Christ  the  Lord  in  Para- 
dise. 

Remember  how  God  made  the  fierce 
fire  seem 

To  those  three  children  like  a  pleasant 
dew. 

Remember,  too, 

The   triumph   of   St.  Andrew   on   his 
cross. 

The  patience  of  St.  Lawrence  in  the 
fire. 

Thus,  if  thou  call  on  God  and  all  the 
saints, 

God  will  beat  down  the  fury  of  the 
flame. 

Or   give    thee   saintly  strength   to  un- 
dergo. 

And  for  thy  soul  shall  masses  here  be 
sung 

By  every  priest  in  Oxford.     Pray  for 
him. 
Cranmer.    Ay,    one    and    all,    dear 
brothers,  pray  for  me ; 

Pray  with  one  breath,  one  heart  one 
soul,  for  me. 


Cole.  And  now,  lest  any  one  among 

you  doubt 
The  man's  conversion  and  remorse  of 

heart, 
Yourselves    shall     hear     him     speak. 

Speak,  Master  Cranmer, 
Fulfil  your  promise  made  me,  and  pro- 

claim 
Your   true   undoubted   faith,  that   all 

may  hear. 
Cranmer.  And  that  I  will.     O  God, 

Father  of  Heaven ! 
O   Son    of    God,    Redeemer    of    the 

world !  [both, 

0  Holy  Ghost !  proceeding  from  them 
Three   persons    and    one    God,   have 

mercy  on  me, 
Most  miserable  sinner,  wretched  man. 

1  have   offended  against   heaven  and 

earth 
More  grievously  than  any  tongue  can 

tell. 
Then  whither  should  I  flee  for   any 

help  t 
I    am    ashamed    to    lift  my  eyes  to 

Heaven, 
And  I  can  find  no  refuge  upon  earth. 
Shall  I  despair  then.>-~God  forbid!  O 

God, 
For  thou  art  merciful,  refusing  none 
That  come  to  Thee  for  succor,  unto 

Thee. 
Therefore,  I  come ;  humble  myself  to 

Thee, 
Saying,   O   I^rd    God,    although   my 

sins  be  great. 
For  thy  great  mercy  have  mercy  f     O 

God  the  Son, 
Not  for  slight  faults  alone,  when  thou 

becamest 
Man  in  the  Flesh,  was  the  great  mys- 
tery wrought ; 
O  God  the  Father,  not  for  little  sins 
Didst  thou  yield  up  thy  Son  to  human 

death ; 
But  for  the  greatest  sin  that  can  be 

sinn'd. 
Yea,  even  such  as  mine,  incalculable. 
Unpardonable, — sin  against  the  light, 
The  truth  of  God,  which  I  had  proveo 

and  known. 


594 


QUEEJV  MARY. 


Thy  mercy  must  be  greater  than  all 
sin. 

Forgive  me,  Father,  for  no  merit  of 
mine, 

But  that  Thy  name  by  man  be  glori- 
fied, 

And    Thy  most   blessed    Son's,   who 
died  for  man. 
Good  people,  every  man  at  time  of 
death 

Would  fain  set  forth  some  saying  that 
may  live 

After  his  death  and    better    human- 
kind ; 

For  death  gives    life's    last    word   a 
power  to  live, 

And,   like   the  stone-cut  epitaph,   re- 
main [men. 

After  the  vanish'd  voice,  and  speak  to 

God   grant    me    grace   to  glorify   my 
God! 

And  first  I  say  it  is  a  grievous  case. 

Many  so  dote  upon  this  bubble  world, 

Whose  colors  in  a  moment  breiak  and 

fly. 

They  care  for  nothing  else.      What 

saith  St.  John: — 
•'Love  of  this  world  is  hatred  against 

God." 
Again,  I  pray  you  all   that,  next  to 

God, 
Vou  do  unmurmuringly  and  willingly 
Obey  your  King  and  Queen,  and  not 

for  dread 
Of  these  alone,  but  "from  the  fear  of 

Him 
Whose  ministers  they  be   to  govern 

you. 
Thirdly,  I  pray  you  all  to  love  together 
Like  brethren  ;  yet  what  hatred  Chris- 
tian men 
Bear  to  each  other,  seeming  not  as 

brethren. 
But  mortal  foes  I     But  do  you  good  to 

all 
As  much  as  in  you  lieth.     Hurt  no 

man  more 
Than   you   would    harm    your   loving 

natural  brother 
Of  the  same  roof,  same  breast.    If  any 

do. 


Albeit  he  think  himself  at  home  with 

God, 
Of   this   be  sure,  he  is  whole  worlds 

away. 
Protestant  Mtirmurs,    What    sort    of 

brothers  then  be  those  that  lust 
To  burn  each  other  } 

Williams.  Peace  among  you,  there. 
Cranmer.    Fourthly,    to   those   that 

own  exceeding  wealth. 
Remember  that  sore  saying    spoken 

once 
By  Him  that  was  the  truth,  "  how  hard 

it  is 
For  the  rich  man  to  enter  into  Heav* 

en;" 
Let  all  rich  men  remember  that  hard 

word. 
I  have   not  time  for  more:  if  ever, 

now 
Let  them  flow  forth  in  charity,  seeing 

now 
The  poor  so  many,  and  all  food  so 

dear. 
Long  have  I  lain  in  prison,  yet  have 

heard 
Of  all   their  wretchedness.     Give  to 

the  poor, 
Ye  give  to  God.     He  is  with  us  in  the 

poor. 
And  now,  and  forasmuch  as  I  have 

come 
To  the  last  end  of  life,  and  thereupon 
Hangs  all  my  past,  and  all  my  life  to 

be. 
Either  to  live  with  Christ  in  Heaven 

with  joy, 
Or  to  be  still  in  pain  with  devils  in 

hell; 
And,  seeing  in  a  moment,  I  shall  find 
[Foittting  upwards. 
Heaven  or  else  hell  ready  to  swallow 

me,  [Pointing  downwards. 

I  shall  declare  to  you  my  very  faith 
Without  all  color. 

Cole.     Hear  him,  my  good  brethren. ! 
Cranmer.    I    do    believe    in    God,  I 

Father  of  all ;  ^  \ 

In  every  article  of  the  Ciatholic  faith, 
And  every  syllable  taught  us  by  oul 

Lord, 


QUEEN  MARY. 


595 


His  prophets,  and  apostles,  in  the  Tes- 
taments, 
Both  Old  and  New. 

Cole.      Be  plainer,  Master  Cranmer. 
Cranmer.  And  now   I  come  to  the 

great  cause  that  weighs 
Upon   my  conscience  more   than  any 

thing 
Or  said  or  done  in  all  m/  life  by  me  ; 
For  there  be  writings  I  have  set  abroad 
Against  the  truth  I  knew  within  my 

heart,  [life, 

Written  for  fear  of  death,  to  save  my 
If  that  might  be;   the  papers  by  my 

hand 
Sign'd  since  my  degradation — by  this 

hand    [Holding  out  his  right  hand. 
Written  and  sign'd— 1  here  renounce 

them  all ; 
And,  since  my  hand  offended,  having 

written 
Against  my  heart,  my  hand  shall  first 

be  burnt, 
So  I  may  come  to  the  fire. 

[Dead  silence. 

Protestant  mnrmnrs. 

First  Protestant.  I  knew  it  would  be 

so. 
Second  Protestant.    Our   prayers   are 

heard  ! 
Third  Protestant.  God  bless  him ! 
Catholic  Mnrmurs.    Out  upon  him! 
out  upon  him  ! 
Liar!    dissembler!     traitor!     to     the 
tire! 
Williams   [raising    his    voice).     You 
know  that  you  recanted  all  you 
said 
Touching  the  sacrament  in  that  same 

book 
You  wrote  against  my  Lord  of  Win- 
chester ; 
Dissemble  not;  play  the  plain  Chris- 
tian man. 
Cranmer.  Alas,  my  Lord, 
I  have  been  a  man  loved  plainness  all 

my  life  ; 
[  did  dissemble,  but  the  hour  has  come 
For  utter  truth  and  plainness ;  where- 
fore, I  say, 


I  hold  by  all  I  wrote  within  that  book. 
Moreover, 

As  for  the   Pope  I  count  him  Anti- 
christ, 
With  all  his  devil's  doctrines ;  and  re- 
fuse. 
Reject  him,  and  abhor  him.     I  have 
said. 
Cries  (on  alt  sides).  Pull  him  down! 

Away  with  him. 
Cole.  Ay,  stop  the  heretic's  mouth. 

Hale  him  away. 
Williams.  Harm  him  not,  harm  him 
not,  have  him  to  the  fire. 
[Cranmer  goes  out   between    two 
Friars,     smiling  ;      hands    are 
reached  to  him  from  the  crowd. 
Lord  William  Howard  anA 
Lord  Paget  are  left  alone  in  the 
Church. 
Paget.  The  nave  and  aisles  all  empty 
as  a  fool's  jest ! 
No,   here's    Lord    William    Howard. 

What,  my  Lord, 
You  have  not  gone  to  see  theburningJ 
Howard.  Fie  \ 

To  stand  at  ease,  and  stare  as  at  a 
show,  [again. 

And  watch  a  good  man  burn  !     Never 
I  saw  the  deaths  of  Latimer  and  Rid- 
ley. 
Moreover,  tho'  a  Catholic,  I  would  not. 
For   the   pure  honor  of  our   common 

nature. 
Hear  what  I  might — another  recanta-i 

tion 
Of  Cranmer  at  the  stake. 

Paget.  You'd  not  hear  that. 

He  pass'd  out  smiling,  and  he  walk'd 

upright ; 
His  eye  was  like  a  soldier's,  whom  the 

general 
He  looks  to  and  leans  on  as  his  God, 
Hath  rated  for  some  backwardness  and 

bidd'n  him 
Charge   one   against  a  thousand,  and 

the  man 
Hurls  his  soil'd  life  against  the  pikes 
and  dies. 
Howard.  Yet  that  he  might  not  af- 
ter all  those  papers 


59^ 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Of  recantation  yield  again,  who  knows  ? 
Paget.  Papers  of  recantation,  think 

you  then 
That  Cranmer  read  all  papers  that  he 

sign'd  ? 
Or  sign'd  all  those  they  tell  us  that  he 

sign'd  ? 
Nay,  [  trow  not :  and  you  shall  see, 

my  Lord, 
That  howsoever  hero-like  the  man 
Dies  in  the  fire,  this  Bonner  or  an- 
other 
Will  in  some  lying  fashion  misreport 
His     ending    to    the    glory    of    their 

church. 
And  you  saw  Latimer  and  Ridley  die? 
Latimer  was  eighty,  was  he  not  ?  his 

best 
Of  life  was  over  then. 

Hmvard.  His  eighty  years 

Look'd  somewhat  crooked  on  him  in 

his  frieze ; 
But  after  they  had  stript  him  to  his 

shroud. 
He  stood  upright,  a  lad  of  twenty-one, 
And  gather'd  with  his  hands  the  start- 
ing flame. 
And  wash'd  his  hands  and  all  his  face 

therein, 
Until  the  powder  suddenly  blew  him 

dead. 
Ridley  was  longer  burning ;    but  he 

died 
As  manfully  and  boldly,  and  'fore  God, 
I  know  them  heretics,  but  right  Eng- 
lish ones. 
If  ever,  as  heaven  grant,  we  clash  with 

Spain, 
Our  Ridley-soldiers  and  our  Latimer- 

sailors 
Will  teach  her  something. 

Paget.  Your  mild  Legate  Pole 

"Will  tell  you  that  the  devil  helpt  them 

thro'  it. 

\A   murmur  of  the  Crowd  in  the 
distance. 
Hark,  how  those  Roman  wolfdogs  howl 

and  bay  him. 
Howard.  Might  it  not  be  the  other 

side  rejoicing 
In  his  brave  end  ? 


Paget.    They  are  too    crush'd,  toa 
broken, 

They  can  but  weep  in  silence. 

Howard.  Ay,  ay,  Paget, 

They  have  brought  it  in  large  measure 
on  themselves. 

Have   I   not   heard    them    mock   the 
blessed  Host 

In  songs  so  lewd,  the  beast  might  roar 
his  claim 

To  being  in  God's  image,  more  than 
they  ?  « 

Have  I  not  seen  the  gamekeeper,  the 
groom. 

Gardener,  and  huntsman,  in  the  par- 
son's place. 

The  parson  from  his  own  spire  swung 
out  dead. 

And  Ignorance  crying  m  the  streets, 
and  all  men 

Regarding  her  ?    I  say  they  have  drawn 
the  fire 

On  their  own  heads  :  yet,  Paget,  I  do 
hold 

The  Catholic,  if  he  have  the  greate: 
right, 

Hath  been  the  crueller. 
Paget.  Action  and  re-action 

The  miserable  see-saw  of  our  child- 
world, 

Make  us  despise  it  at  odd  hours,  my 
Lord. 

Heaven  help  that  this  re-action  not  re- 
act 

Yet  fiercelier  under  Queen  Elizabeth, 

So  that  she  come  to  rule  us. 
Howard.  The  world's  mad. 

Paget.  My  Lord,  the  world  is  like  a 
drunken  man. 

Who  cannot  move  straight  to  his  end 
— but  reels 

Now  to  the  right,  then  as  far  to  the 
left, 

Push'd  by  the  crowd  beside — and  un- 
derfoot 

An  earthquake  ;  for  since  Henry  for  a 
doubt — 

Which  a  young  lust  had  clapt  upon 
the  back, 

Crying,     "  Forward,"  —  set    our    old 
church  rocking,  men 


\ 


QUEEN  MARY. 


597 


Have  hardly  known  what  to  believe,  or 

whether 
They  should  believe  in  anything ;  the 

currents 
So  shift  and  change,  they  see  not  how 

they  are  borne, 
Nor  whither.     I  conclude  the  King  a 

beast ; 
Veiily  a  lion  if  you  will — the  world 
A  inost  obedient  beast  and  fool — my- 
self 
Half  beast  and  fool  as  appertaining  to 

it; 
Altho'  your  Lordship  hath  as  little  of 

each 

Cleaving  to  your  original  Adam-clay, 
As  may  be  consonant  with  mortality. 
Howard.  We  talk  and  Cranmer  suf- 
fers 
The  kindliest  man  I  ever  knew ;  see, 

see, 
I  speak  of  him  in  the  past.    Unhappy 

land! 
Hard-natured  Queen,  half  Spanish  in 

herself. 
And  grafted  on  the  hard-grain'd  stock 

of  Spain —  [lost 

Her  life,  since  Philip  left  her,  and  she 
Her  fierce  desire    of  bearing  him  a 

child, 
Hath,  like  a  brief  and  bitter  winter's 

day. 
Gone  narrowing  down  and  darkening 

to  a  close. 
There  will  be  more    conspiracies,   I 

fear. 

Paget.  Ay,  ay,  beware  of  France. 

Howard.       '  O  Paget,  Paget! 

I  have  seen  heretics  of  the  poorer  sort, 

Expectant  of  the  rack  from  day  to  day. 

To  whom  the  fire  were  welcome,  lying 

chain'd 
In  breathless  dungeons  over  steaming 

sewers, 
Fed  with  rank  bread  that  crawl'd  upon 

the  tongue, 
And  putrid  water,  every  drop  a  worm, 
Until  they  died  of  rotted  limbs  ;  and 

then 

Cast  on  the  dunghill  naked,  and  be- 
come 


Hideously  alive  again  from  head   to 

heel. 
Made  even  the  carrion-nosing  mongrel 

vomit 
With  hate  and  horror. 

Paget.  Nay,  you  sicken  me 

To  hear  you. 
Howard.    Fancy-sick;    these   things 

are  done. 
Done  right  against  the  promise  of  this 

Queen 
Twice  given. 
Paget.    No  faith  with  heretics,  my 

Lord! 
Hist !  there  be  two  old  gossips — Gos- 
pellers, 
I  take    it ;    stand  behind  the    pillar 

here; 
I  warrant  you  they  talk  about  the  burn* 

ing. 

Enter  Tw^o  Old  Women.    Joan,  and 
after  her  TiB. 

Joan.  Why,  it  be  Tib. 

Tib.  I  ciim  behind  tha,  gall,  and 
couldn't  make  tha  hear.  Eh,  the  wind 
and  the  wet  !  What  a  day,  what  a 
day!  nigh  upo' judgment  daay  loike. 
Pwoaps  be  pretty  things,  Joan,  but 
they  wunt  set  i'  the  Lords'  cheer  o' 
that  daay. 

Joan.  I  must  set  down  myself,  Tib; 
it  be  a  var  waay  vor  my  owld  legs  up 
vro*  Islip.  Eh,  my  rheumatizy  be  that 
bad  howiver  be  I  to  win  to  the 
burnin'. 

Tib.  I  should  saay  'twur  ower  by 
now.  I'd  ha'  been  here  avore,  but 
Dumble  wur  blow'd  wi'  the  wind,  and 
Dumble's  the  best  milcber  in  Islip. 

Joan.  Our  Daisy  's  as  good  'z  her. 

Tib.  Noa.  Juan. 

Joan.  Our  Daisy's  butter  's  as  good 
'z  hern. 

Tib.  Noa,  Joon. 

Joan.  Our  Daisy's  cheeses  be  better. 

Tib.  Noa,  Joan. 

Joan.  Eh,  then  ha'  thy  waay  wi'  me, 
Tib ;  ez  thou  hast  wi'  thy  owld  man. 

Tib.  Ay,  Joan,  and  my  owld  man 
wur  up  and  avvaay  betimes  wi'  dree  hard 


59^ 


QUEEN  MARY. 


e^gs  for  a  good  pleace  at  the  burnin' : 
and  barrin'  the  wet,  Hodge  'ud  ha 
been  a-harrowin'  o'  white  peasen  i'  the 
outfield — and  barrin'  the  wind,  Dum- 
ble  wur  blow'd  vvi'  the  wind,  so  'z  we 
Was  forced  to  stick  her,  but  we  fetched 
her  round  at  last.  Thank  the  Lord 
therevore.  Dumble  's  the  best  milcher 
in  Islip. 

Joan.  Thou  's  thy  way  wi'  man  and 
beast,  Tib.  I  wonder  at  tha',  it  beats 
me  !  Eh,  but  1  do  know  ez  Pwoaps 
and  vires  be  bad  things;  tell  'ec  now, 
I  heerd  summat  as  summun  towld 
summun  o'  owld  Bishop  Gardiner's 
end  ;  there  wur  an  owld  lord  a-cum  to 
dine  wi'  un,  and  a  wur  so  owld  a 
couldn't  bide  vor  his  dinner,  but  a  had 
to  bide  howsomiver,  vor  "  I  wunt 
•dine,"  says  my  Lord  Bishop,  says  he 
'not  till  I  hears  ez  Latimer  and  Ridley, 
be  a-vire  ;  "  and  so  they  bided  on  and 
on  till  vour  o'  the  clock,  till  his  man 
cum  in  post  vro'  here,  and  tells  un  ez 
the  vire  has  tuk  holt.  "  Now,"  says  the 
bishop,  says  he,  "  we'll  gwo  to  din- 
ner ;  "  and  the  owld  lord  fell  to  's  meat 
wi'  a  will,  God  bless  un  ;  but  Gardiner 
wur  struck  down  like  by  the  hand  o' 
God  avore  a  could  taste  a  mossel,  and 
a  set  him  all  a-vire,  so  'z  the  tongue  on 
un  cum  a-loUuping  out  o'  'is  mouth  as 
black  as  a  rat.  Thank  the  Lord,  there- 
vore. 

Paget.  The  fools ! 

Tib.  Ay,  Joan ;  and  Queen  Mary 
gwoes  on  a-burnin'  and  a-burnin',  to  git 
her  baaby  born ;  but  all  her  burnin's 
*ill  never  burn  out  the  hypocrisy  that 
makes  the  water  in  her.  There  's 
nought  but  the  vire  of  God's  hell  ez 
can  burn  out  that. 

Joatt.  Thank  the  Lord,  therevore. 

Paget.  The  fools  ! 

Tib.  A-burnin',  and  a-burnin',  and  a- 
makin'  o'  volk  madder  and  madder ; 
but  tek  thou  my  word  vor  't,  Joan — 
and  I  bean't  wrong  not  twice  i'  ten 
year — the  burnin'  o'  the  owld  arch- 
bishop '11  burn  the  Pwoap  out  o'  this 
*£re  land  vor  iver  and  iver. 


Howard.    Out  of  the    church,   yoa 

brace  of  cursed  crones, 
Or  I  will  have  you  duck'd.     (  JVomex 

/lurfy  out.)     Said  I  not  right.? 
For  how   should  reverend  prelate  or 

throned  prince 
Brook  for  an  hour  such  brute  malig- 
nity ? 
Ah,  what   an   acrid  wine   has   Luther 

brew'd  ! 
Paget    Pooh,  pooh,  my  Lord  !  poor 

garrulous  country-wives. 
Buy  you  their  cheeses,  and  they'll  side 

with  you ; 
You  cannot  judge  the  liquor  from  the 

lees. 
Howard.  I  think  that  in  some  sort 

we  may.     But  see, 

Ejtter  Peters. 

Peters,  my  gentleman,  an  honest  Cath- 
olic, 

Who  follow'd  with  the  crowd  to  Cran- 
mer's  fire. 

One  that  would  neither  misreport  nor 
lie. 

Not  to  gain  paradise  :  no,  nor  if  the 
Pope 

Charged  him  to  do  it — he  is  white  as 
death. 

Peters,  how  pale  ycu  look!  you  bring 
the  smoke 

Of  Cranmer's  burning  with  you. 
Peters.  Twice  or  thrice  \ 

The    smoke    of    Cranmer's     burning 
wrapt  me  round. 
Howard.  Peters,  you  know  me  Cath- 
olic, but  English. 

Did  he  die  bravely  .-*    Tell  me  that,  or 
leave 

All  else  untold. 

Peters,    My    Lord,    he    died   moiit 

bravely. 
Howard.  Then  tell  me  all. 
Paget.         Ay,  Master  I'eters,  tell  us.    , 
Peters.  You   saw  him  how  he  past    I 
among  the  crowd ; 

And  ever  as   he    walk'd  the   Spanish 
friars 

Still  plied  him  with  entreaty  and  re- 
proach : 


QUEEN  MARY. 


599 


But  Cranmer,  as  the  helmsman  at  the 

hehn 
Steers,   ever    looking    to    the    happy 

haven 
Where  he  shall  rest  at  night,  moved  to 

his  death ; 
And    I    could    see  that  many  silent 

hands 
I  Came  from  the  crowd  and  met  his 

own ;  and  thus. 
When    we   had    come    where   Ridley 

burnt  with  Latimer, 
He,   with   a    cheerful    smile,   as    one 

whose  mind  [rags 

Is  all  made  up,  in   haste  put  off  the 
They  had  mock'd  his  misery  with,  and 

all  in  white. 
His  long  white  beard,  which  he  had 

never  shaven 
Since  Henry's   death,  down-sweeping 

to  the  chain 
Wherewith   they  bound  him  to    the 

stake,  he  stood, 
More   like  an  ancient  father  of    the 

Church, 
Than  heretic  of  these  times;  and  still 

the  friars 
;  Plied  him,  but  Cranmer  only  shook 

his  head, 
Or  answer'd  them  in  smiling  negatives ; 
Whereat  Lord  Williams  gave  a  sud- 
den cry  : — 
"  Make  short !   make  short !  "  and  so 

they  lit  the  wood. 
Then  Cranmer  lifted  his  left  hand  to 

heaven, 
And  thrust   his  right  into  the  bitter 

flame ; 
And  crying,  in  his  deep  voice,  more 

than  once, 
"This  hath  offended — this  unworthy 

hand  !  " 
So  held  it  till  it  all  was  burn'd,  before 
The  flame  had  reach'd   his  body ;   I 

stood  near — 
Mark'd  him — he  never  uttered  moan 

of  pain  : 
He  never  stirr'd  or  writhed,  but,  like  a 

statue, 
Unmoving   in   the    greatness    of    the 

flame. 


Gave  up  the  ghost ;  and  so  past  martyr- 
like— 
Martyr  I  may  not  call  him — past — but 
whither  ? 
Paget.  To  purgatory,  man,  to  purga* 

tory. 
Peters.  Nay,  but  my  Lord,  he  denied 

purgatory. 
Paget.  Why  then  to  heaven,  and  God 

ha'  mercy  on  him. 
Howard.  Paget,  despite  his  fearful 
heresies, 
I  loved  the  man,  and  needs  must  moan 

for  him ; 
O  Cranmer ! 
Paget.  But  your  moan    is    useless 
now: 
Come  out,  my  Lord,  it  is  a  world  of 
fools.  \_Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  L— LONDON.    HALL  IN 
THE  PALACE. 

Queen,  Sir  Nicholas  Heath. 

Heath.  Madam, 
I  do  assure  you  that  it  must  be  looked 

to: 
Calais  is  but  ill-garrison'd,  in  Guisncs 
Are  scarce  two  hundred  men,  and  the 

French  fleet 
Rule  in  the  narrow  seas.     It  must  be 

look'd  to, 
If  war  should  fall  between  yourself  and 

France ; 
Or  you  will  lose  your  Calais. 

Mary.  It  shall  be  look'd  to  ; 

I  wish  you  a  good-morning,  good  Sii 

Nicholas : 
Here  is  the  King.  [Exit  Heath. 

Enter  Philip. 

Philip.     Sir  Nicholas  tells  you  true. 
And  you  must  look  to  Calais  when  j 
go. 
Mai-y.  Go  !    must  you  go,  indeed-* 
a^ain — so  soon  ? 


6oo 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Why,  nature's  licensed  vagabond,  the 

swallow. 
That  might  live  always  in  the  sun's 

warm  heart, 
Stays  longer  here  in  our  poor  north 

than  you  : — 
Knows  where  he  nested — ever  comes 

again. 
PhUip.  And,  madam,  so  shall  I. 
Mary.  O,  will  you  ?  will  you  ? 

I  am  faint  with  fear  that  you  will  come 

no  more. 
Philip.  Ay,  ay ;  but  many  voices  call 

me  hence. 
Mary.  Voices — I  hear  unhappy  ru- 
mors— nay, 
I  say  not,  I  believe.    What  voices  call 

you 
Dearer  than  mine  that  should  be  dear- 
est to  you } 
Alas,  my  Lord  !  what  voices  and  how 

many  .'* 
Philip.  The  voices  of  Castile  and 

Aragon, 
Granada,  Naples,  Sicily,  and  Milan, — 
The  voices  of  Franche-Comte,  and  the 

Netherlands, 
The  voices  of  Peru  and  Mexico, 
Tunis,  and  Oran,  and  the  Philippines, 
And  all  the  fair  spice-islands  of  the 

East. 
Mary    [admiringly).    You   are    the 

mightiest  monarch  upon  earth, 
I  but  a  little  Queen  :  and  so,  indeed, 
Need  you  the  more;   and  wherefore 

could  you  not 
Helm  the  huge  vessel  of  your  state, 

my  liege. 
Here,  by  the  side  of  her  who  loves  you 

most  ? 
Philip.  No,  Madam,  no  !  a  candle  in 

the  sun  [moon 

Is  all  but  smoke — a  star  beside   the 
Is  all  but  lost;  your  people  will  not 

crown  me — 
Your  people  are  as  cheerless  as  your 

clime; 
Hate    me    and    mine  :    witness     the 

brawls,  the  gibbets. 
Here    swings  a   Spaniard — there    an 

Englishman ; 


The  peoples  are  unlike  as  their  com* 

plexion ; 
Yet  will    I   be   your   swallow  and  re- 
turn— 
But  now  I  cannot  bide. 

Mary.  Not  to  help  me  ? 

They  hate  me  also  for  m.y  love  to  you, 
My  Philip  ;   and  these  judgments  on 

the  land — 
Harvestless  autumns,  horrible  agues, 
plague — 
Philip.    The    blood   and    sweat    of 
heretics  at  the  stake 
Is   God  s  best  dew   upon   the   barren 

field. 
Burn  more  I 

Mary.  I  will,  I  will;  and  you  will 

stay. 
Philip.  Have  I  not  said  ?  Madam,  I 
came  to  sue  [war. 

Your  Council  and  yourself  to  declare 
Mary.  Sir,  there  are  many  English 
in  your  ranks 
To  help  your  battle. 

Philip.  So  far,  good.     I  say 

I  came  to  sue  your  Council  and  your- 
self 
To  declare  war  against  the  King   of 
France. 
Mary.  Not  to  see  me  ? 
Philip.  Ay,  Madam,  to  see  you. 

Unalterably  and  pester ingly  fond  ! 

{Aside. 
But,  soon  or  late  you  must  have  war 

with  France ; 
King  Henry  warms  your  traitors  at  his 

hearth. 
Carew  is  there,  and  Thom.as  Stafford 

there. 
Courtenay,  belike — 

Mary.  A  fool  and  featherheacfl 

Philip.  Ay,  but  they  use  his  name. 
In  brief,  this  Henry 
Stirs  up  your  land  against  you  to  the 

intent 
That  you  may  lose  your  English  her- 
itage. 
And   then,   your    Scottish    namesake 

marrying 
The  Dauphin,  he  would  weld  France, 
England,  Scotland, 


QUEEN  MARY. 


15oi 


Into  one  sword  to  hack  at  Spain  and 

me. 
Mary.  And  yet  the  Pope  is  now  col- 
leagued  with  France  ; 
You  make  your  wars  upon  him  down 

in  Italy  : — 
Philip,  can  that  be  well  ? 

Philip.  Content  you,  Madam  ; 

You  must  abide  my  judgment,  and  my 

father's, 
Who  deems  it  a  most  just  and   holy 

war. 
The  Pope  would   cast   the   Spaniard 

out  of  Naples:       *    • 
He  calls  us  worse  than  Jews,  Moors, 

Saracens. 
The  Pope  has  push'd  his  horns  beyond 

his  mitre — 
Beyond  his  province.     Now, 
Duke  Alva  will  but  touch  him  on  the 

horns. 
And   he  withdraws;  and  of   his  holy 

head — 
For  Alva  is    true    son    of    the    true 

church — 
No  hair  is  harm'd.     Will  you  not  help 

me  here  .'' 
Mary.  Alas  !    the   Council  will  not 

hear  of  war 
They  say  your  wars  are  not  the  wars 

of  England. 
They  will  not  lay  more  taxes  on  a  land 
So  hunger-nipt  and  wretched ;  and  vou 

know 
The  crown   is  poor.     We   have  given 

the  church-lands  back  : 
The  nobles  would  not ;  nay,  they  clapt 

their  hands 
Upon   their  swords  when  ask'd;  and 

therefore  God 
Is  hard  upon  the  people.     What's  to 

be  done } 
Sir,  I  will  move  them  in  your  cause 

again. 
And  we  will  raise  us  loans  and  sub- 
sidies 
Among     the     merchants;    and      Sir 

Thomas  Gresham 
Will  aid  us.     There  is  Antwerp  and 

the  Jews. 
Philip.  Madam,  my  thanks. 


Mary.  And  you  will  stay  your  going  ? 
Philip.  And    further  to  discourage 
and  lay  lame 
The  plots  of  France,  altho'  you  love 

her  not. 
You  must  proclaim    Elizabeth    your 

heir. 
She  stands  between  you  and  the  Queen 
of  Scots. 
Mary.  The  Queen  of  Scots  at  least 

is  Catholic. 
Philip.  Ay,   Madam,  Catholic;  but 
I  will  not  have 
The  King  of  France  the  King  of  Eng- 
land too. 
Mary    But  she's  a  heretic,  and,  when 
I  am  gone, 
Brings  the  new  learning  back. 

Philip  It  must  be  done. 

You    must    proclaim  Elizabeth  your 
heir. 
Mary.  Then  it  is  done ;  but  you  will 
stay  your  going 
Somewhat  beyond  your    settled  pur- 
pose .'' 
Philip.  No ! 

Mary    What,  not  one  day  ? 
Philip.  You  beat  upon  the  rock. 

Mary.  And  I  am  broken  there. 
Philip.  ^  Is  this  a  place 

To  wail  in,  Madam  "i  what !    a  public 

hall. 
Go  in,  I  pray  you. 

Mary.         Do  not  seem  so  changed. 
Say  go ;  but  only  say  it  lovingly. 
Philip.  You  do  mistake.     I  am  not 
one  to  change. 
I  never  loved  you  more. 

Mary.  Sire,  l  ooey  you 

Come  quickly. 
Philip.  Ay.  lExit  Mary. 

Enter  Count  de  Feria. 

Feria  [aside).  The  Queen  in  tears. 
Philip.  Feria  \ 

Hast  thou  not  mark'd — come  closer  to 

mine  ear — 
How  doubly  aged  this  Queen  of  ours 

hath  grown 
Since  she  lost  hope  of  bearing  us  2k 
child  t 


6o2 


QUEEN  MARY, 


Feria.    Sire,    if    your    Grace     hath 

mark'd  it,  so  have  I. 
Philip.    Hast     thou     not     likewise 
mark'd  Elizabeth, 
How  fair  and  royal — like  a  Queen,  in- 
deed ? 
Feria,  Allow  me  the  same  answer 
.        as  before — 

That  if  your  Grace  hath  mark'd  her, 
so  have  I. 
Philip.    Good,  now ;    methinks   my 
Queen  is  like  enough 
To  leave  me  by  and  by. 

Feria.  To  leave  you,  sire  ? 

Philip.  I   mean    not    like    to    live. 
Elizabeth — 
To  Philibert  of  Savoy,  as  you  know, 
We  meant  to  wed  her ;  but  I  am  not 

sure 
She  will  not  serve  me  better — so  my 

Queen 
Would  leave  me — as — my  wife. 
Feria.  Sire,  even  so. 

Philip.    She  will   not  have   Prince 

Philibert  of  Savoy. 
Feria.  No,  sire. 

Philip.  I  have  to  pray  you,  some  odd 
time, 
To  sound  the   Princess  carelessly  on 

this  ; 
Kot  as  from  me,  but  as  your  fantasy ; 
And  tell  me  how  she  takes  it. 
Feria.  Sire,  I  will. 

Philip.   I   am   not   certain  but  that 
Philibert 
Shall  be  the  man;  and  I  shall  urge  his 

suit 
Upon  the   Queen,  because  I  am  not 

certain : 
You  understand,  Feria. 

Feria.  Sire,  I  do. 

Philip.  And  if  you  be  not  secret  in 
this  matter, 
You  understand  me  there,  too  ? 

Feria.  Sire,  I  do. 

Philip.  You  must  be  sweet  and  sup- 
ple, like  a  Frenchman. 
She  is  none  of  those  who  loathe  the 
honey-comb.  {Exit  Feria. 


Enter  Renard. 

Renard.  My  liege,  I  bring  you  goodly 

tidings. 
Philip.  Well. 

Renard.    There    will  be    war   with 

France,  at  last,  my  liege  ; 
Sir   Thomas    Stafford,    a   bull-headed 

ass. 
Sailing  from  France,  with  thirty  Eng- 
lishmen, 
Hath  taken  Scarboro'  Castle,  north  of 

York; 
Proclaims   himself  protector,    and   af- 
firms 
The  Queen  has  forfeited  her  right  to 

reign 
By   marriage   with    an    alien  —  other 

things 
As  idle ;  a  weak  Wyatt !     Little  doubt 
This  buzz  will  soon  be  silenced  !   but 

the  Council 
(I  have  talk'd  with  some  already)  are 

for  war. 
This  is  the  fifth  conspiracy  hatch'd  in 

France ; 
They  show   their  teeth  upon  it ;  and 

your  Grace, 
So  you  will  take  advice  of  mine,  should 

stay 
Yet  for  a  while,  to  shape  and  guide  the 

event. 
Philip.  Good!    Renard,  I  will  stay 

then. 
Renard.  Also,  sire. 
Might  I  not  say — to  please  your  wife, 

the  Queen  t 
Philip.  Ay,  Renard,  if  you   care   to 

put  it  so.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  II.  — A   ROOM  IN  THE 
PALACE. 

Mary  and  Cardinal  Pole.  Lady 
Claren'CE  and  Alice  in  the  back- 
ground. 

Mary.    Reginald   Pole,  what    news 
hath  plagued  thy  heart  ? 
What  makes  thy  favor  like  the  blood- 
less head 


QUEEN  MARY. 


C03 


Fall'n  on  the  block,  and  held  up  by  the 
hair  ? 

Philip  ?— 
Pole.       No,  Philip  is  as  warm  in  life 

As  ever. 
Mary.  Ay,  and  then  as  cold  as  ever. 

Is  Calais  taken  ? 
Pole.         Cousin,  there  hath  chanced 

A   sharper   harm   to  England  and   to 
Rome, 

Than  Calais  taken.     Julius  the  Third 

Was  ever  just,  and  mild,  and  father- 
like ; 

But  this  new  Pope  Caraffa,  Paul  the 
Fourth, 

Not  only  reft  me  of  that  legateship 

Which  Julius  gave  me,  and  the  legate- 
ship 

Annex'd    to    Canterbury  —  nay,   but 
worse — 

And  yet  I  must  obey  the  holy  father, 

And  so  must  you,  good  cousin ; — worse 
than  all, 

A  passing  bell  toll'd  in  a  dying  ear — 

He  hath  cited  me  to  Rome,  for  heresy. 

Before  his  Inquisition. 

Mary.  I  knew  it,  cousin. 

But  held  from  you  all  papers  sent  by 
Rome, 

That  you  might  rest  among  us,  till  the 
Pope, 

To  compass  which  I  wrote  myself  to 
Rome, 

Reversed  his  doom,  and  that  you  might 
not  seem 

To  disobey  his  Holiness. 
Pole.  He  hates  Philip ; 

He  is  all   Italian,  and  he   hates  the 
Spaniard ; 

He  cannot  dream  that  /  advised  the 
war ; 

He  strikes  thro'  me  at  Philip  and  your- 
self. 

Nay,  but  I  know  it  of  old,  he  hates  me 
too ;  [dom 

So  brands  me  in  the  stare  of  Christen- 

A  heretic  ! 

Now,  even  now,   when  bow'd  before 
my  time. 

The  house  haJf-ruin'd  ere  the  lease  be 
out ; 


When  I  should  guide  the  Church  in 
peace  at  home. 

After  my  twenty  years  of  banishment, 

And  all  my  lifelong  labor  to  uphold 

The  primacy — a  heretic.     Long  ago, 

When  I  was  ruler  in  the  patrimony, 

I  was  too  lenient  to  the  Lutheran, 

And  I  and  learned  friends  among  our. 
selves 

Would  freely  canvass  certain  Luther- 
anisms. 

What   then,  he   knew  I  was   no   Lu- 
theran. 

A  heretic  !  [head. 

He  drew  this  shaft  against  me  to  the 

When   it    was    thought   I    might    be 
chosen  Pope, 

But   then    withdrew   it.     In  full   corh 
sistory. 

When  I  was  made  Archbishop,  he  ap- 
proved me. 

And  how  should   he    have    sent  me 
Legate  hither. 

Deeming  me  heretic  ?  and  what  heresy 
since .? 

But  he  was  evermore  mine  enemy, 

And   hates  the    Spaniard — fiery-chol- 
eric, 

A  drinker  of  black,   strong,  volcanic 
wines. 

That  ever  make  him  fierier.     I,  a  her- 
etic! 

Your  Highness  knows  that  in  pursuing 
heresy 

I  have  gone  beyond  your  late   JLord 
Chancellor, — 

He  cried  Enough !  enough  !  before  his 
death, — 

Gone  beyond  him  and  mine  own  nat 
ural  man 

(It  was  God's  cause) ;  so  far  they  call 
me  now, 

The  scourge  and  butcher  of  their  Eng- 
lish  church. 
Mary.  Have  courage,  your  reward  is 

heaven  itself. 
Pole.  They  groan  amen  ;  they  swarm 
into  the  fire 

Like  flies — for  what  }  no  dogma.   They 
know  nothing, 

They  burn  for  nothing. 


6o4 


QUEEN-  MARY. 


Mary. '       You  have  done  your  best. 
Pole.  Have  done  my  best,  and  as  a 

faithful  son, 
That   all  day  long   hath  wrought  his 

father's  work, 
When  back  he  comes  at  evening  hath 

the  door 
Shut  on  him  by  the  father  whom  he 

loved, 
His  early  follies  cast  into  his  teeth, 
And  the  poor  son  turn'd  out  into  the 

street 
To   sleep,  to   die — I    shall    die   of   it, 

cousin. 
Mary.  I  pray  you  be  not  so  discon- 
solate ; 
I  still  will  do  mine  utmost  with  the 

Pope. 
Poor  cousin. 
Have  I  not  been  tne  fast  friend  of  your 

life 
Since  mine  began,  and  it  was  thought 

we  two 
Might  make  one  flesh,  and  cleave  unto 

each  other 
As  man  and  wife. 

Pole.  Ah,  cousin,  I  remember 

How   I   would   dandle   you   upon  my 

knee 
At  lisping-age.     I  watch'd  you  dancing 

once 
"With  your  huge  father  j  he  looked  the 

Great  Harry, 
You  but  his  cockboat ;  prettily  you  did 

it. 
And   innocently.     No  "^  we   were  not 

made  [here ; 

One  flesh  in  happine-is,  no  happiness 
But   now   we   are    made   one   flesh  in 

misery ; 
Our  bridemaids  are  not  lovely — Disap- 
pointment, 
Ingratitude,  Injustice,  Evil-tongue, 
Labor-in-vain. 

Mary.  Surely,  not  all  in  vain. 

Peace,    cousin,   peace  I     I   am   sad  at 

heart  myself. 
Pole.  Our  altar  is  a  mound  of  dead 

men's  clay, 
Dug  from  the  grave  that  yawns  for  us 

beyond ; 


And  there  is  one  Death  stands  behind 

the  Groom, 
And  there  is  one  Death  stands  behind 

the  Bride — 
Mary.  Have  you  been  looking  at  the 

"  Dance  of  Death  ? " 
Pole.  No  ;  but  these  libellous  papers 

which  I  found 
Strewn   in     your   palace.      Look   you 

here — the  Pope 
Pointing   at   me  with  **  Pole,  the  her- 
etic, 
Thou  hast  burnt  others,  do  thou  burn 

thyself. 
Or  I  will  burn  thee,"  and  this  other; 

see! — 
"  We  pray  continually  for  the  death 
Of  our  accursed  Queen  and  Cardinal 

Pole." 
This  last — I  dare  not  read  it  her. 

\Aside. 
Mary.  Away! 

Why  do  you  bring  me  these  ? 
I   thought   you   knew   me    better.      I 

never  read, 
I  tear  them ;  they  come  back  upon  my 

dreams. 
The  hands  that  write   them  should  be 

burnt  clean  off 
As  Cranmer's,  and  the  fiends  that  ut 

ter  them 
Tongue-torn    with   pincers,   lash'd   to 

death,  or  lie 
Famishing   in  black  cells,  while  fam- 

ish'd  rats 
Eat  them  alive.     Why  do  they  bring 

me  these  1 
Do  you  mean  to  drive  me  mad  .-* 

Pole.  I  had  forgotten 

How  these  poor  libels  trouble  you. 

Your  pardon. 
Sweet  cousin,  and  farewell !  "  O  bub* 

ble  world. 
Whose  colors  in  a  moment  break  and 

fly!" 
Why,  who  said  that?     I  know  not — 

true  enough  ! 

{^Piits  up  the  papers,  all  hut  the  last^ 
which  falls.     Extt  Pole. 
Alice.    If  Cranmer's   spirit   were  a 

mocking  one, 


And  heard  these  two,  there  might  be 

sport  for  him.  [^Aside. 

Mary.  Clarence,  they  hate  me  ;  even 

while  I  speak 

There  lurks  a  silent  dagger,  listening 

In  some  dark  closet,  some  long  gallery, 

drawn, 
A.nd  panting  for  my  blood  as  I  go  Ijy. 
Lady  Clarence.  Nay,  Madam,   there 
be  loyal  papers  too, 
And  I  have  often  found  them. 

Mary.  Find  me  one  ! 

Lady  Clarence.  Ay,  Madam  ;  but  Sir 
Nicholas  Heath,  the  Chancellor, 
Would  see  your  Highness. 
Mary.  Wherefore  should  I  see  him  ? 
Lady  Clarence.  Well,  Madam,  he  may 

bring  you  news  from  Philip. 
Majy.  So,  Clarence. 
Lady  Clarence.  Let  me  first  put  up 
your  hair ; 
It  tumbles  all  abroad. 

Mary  And  the  gray  dawn 

Of  an  old  age  that  never  will  be  mine 
Is  all  the  clearer  seen.    No,  no ;  what 

matters  ? 
Forlorn  I  am,  and  let  me  look  forlorn. 

Enter  Sir  Nicholas  Heath. 

Heath.    I  bring   your  Majesty  such 
grievous  news 
I  grieve  to  bring  it.     Madam,  Calais  is 
taken. 
Mary.  What  traitor  spoke  .^     Here, 
let  my  cousin  Pole 
Seize   him   and  burn   him   for   a   Lu- 
theran. 
Heath.  Her  Highness  is  unwell.     I 

will  retire. 
Lady  Clarence.  Madam,  your   chan- 
cellor, Sir  Nicholas  Heath. 
Mary.  Sir  Nicholas  t     I  am  stunn'd 
—Nicholas  Heath  ? 
Methought  some  traitor  smote  me  on 

the  head. 
What  said  you,  my  good  Lord,  that 

our  brave  English 
Had  sallied  out  from  Calais  and  driven 

back 
The  Frenchmen  from  their  trenches  ? 
Heath.  Alas  I  no. 


That  gateway  to  the   mainland  over 

which 
Our  flag  hath  floated  for  two  hundred 

years 
Is  France  again. 

Mary.  So ;  but  it  is  not  lost — 

Not  yet.     Send  out :  let  England  as  of 

old 
Rise   lionlike,  strike   hard  and    deep 

into 
The  prey  they  are  rending  from  her— 

ay,  and  rend 
The  renders  too.     Send  out,  send  out, 

and  make 
Musters   in   all    the   counties;    gather 

all 
From   sixteen   years   to  sixty;   collect 

the  fleet; 
Let   every  craft   that   carries  sail  and 

gun 
Steer  toward  Calais.     Guisnes  is  not 

taken  yet } 
Heath.  Guisnes  is  not  taken  yet. 
Mary.  There  yet  is  hope. 

Heath.  Ah,  Madam,  but  your  people 

are  so  cold ; 
I  do  much  fear  that  England  will  not 

care. 
Methinks   there   is   no    manhood  left 

among  us. 
Mary.  Send  out ;  I  am  too  weak  to 

stir  abroad ; 
Tell  my  mind  to  the  Council — to  the 

Parliament ; 
Proclaim  it   to  the   winds.     Thou  art 

cold  thyself 
To  babble  of  their  coldness.     O  would 

I  were 
My  father  for  an  hour !     Away  now — 

quick!  [^jr// Heath. 

I  hoped  I  had  served  God  with  all  my 

Vnight ! 
It   seems    I    have    not.      Ah!    much 

heresy 
Shelter'd   in   Calais.      Saints,  I   have 

rebuilt 
Your    shrines,    set    up    your    broken 

images ; 
Be  comfortable  to  me.     Suffer  not 
That  my  brief  reign  in  England  be  de« 

famed 


6oG 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Thro'   all   her   angry  chronicles  here- 
after 
By  loss  of  Calais.     Grant  me  Calais. 

Philip, 
We   have  made  war  upon  the   Holy 

Father 
All  for  your  sake :  what  good  could 
come  of  that  ? 
Lady    Clarence.    No,    Madam,    not 
against  the  Holy  Father; 
You  did  but  help  King  Philip's  war 

with  France. 
Your  troops  were  never  down  in  Italy. 
Mary.  I  am  a  byword.     Heretic  and 
rebel 
Point  at  me  and  make  merry.     Philip 

gone  ! 
And  Calais  gone  !     Time  that  I  were 
gone  too ! 
Lady  Clarence.  Nay,  if  the  fetid  gut- 
ter had  a  voice 
And  cried  I  was  not  clean,  what  should 

I  care  ? 
Or  you,  for  heretic  cries  ?    And  I  be- 
lieve, [olas 
Spite   of   your   melancholy   Sir   Nich- 
Your  England  is  as  loyal  as  myself. 
Mary  [seeing  the  paper  dropt  by  Pole). 
There,  there !  another  paper !   Said 
you  not 
Many  of   these   were  loyal  ?    Shall  I 

try 
If  this  be  one  of  such  ? 

Lady  Clarence.       Let  it  be,  let  it  be. 

God   pardon   me!    I   have   never   yet 

found  one.  \Aside. 

Mary   [reads).    "  Your   people    hate 

you  as  your  husband  hates  you." 

Clarence,  Clarence,  what  have  I  done  ? 

what  sin 
Beyond  all  grace,  all  pardon  ?    Mother 

of  God, 
Thou  knowest  never  woman  me^nt  so 

well. 
And   fared   so   ill   in   this    disastrous 

world. 
My  people   hate    me   and  desire  my 
death. 
Lady  Clarence.  No,  Madam,  no. 
Marv.    My  husband  hates  me,  and 
desires  my  death. 


Lady  Clarence.   No,  Madam ;  thes* 

are  libels. 
Mary.  I  hate  myself,  and  I  desire  my 

death. 
Lady  Clarence.  Long  live  your  Maj- 
esty!  Shall  Alice  sing  you 
One  of  her  pleasant  songs  ?    Alice,  my 

child. 
Bring  us  your  lute.  (  Alice  ^^^j.)  They 

say  the  gloom  of  Saul 
Was  lighten'd  by  young  David's  harp. 
Mary.  Too  young! 

And   never  knew  a  Philip.    [Re-enter 

Alice.)     Give  me  the  lute. 
He  hates  me  ! 

{She  sings.) 

Hapless  doom  of  woman,  happy  in  betrothing! 

Beauty  passes  like  a  breath  and  love  is  lost  m 
loathing : 

Low,  my  lute  ;  speak  low,  my  lute,  but  say  the 
world  is  nothing — 

Low,  lute,  low! 

Love  will  hover  round  the  flowers  when  they 
first  awaken  ; 

Love  will  fly  the  fallen  leaf,  and  not  be  over- 
taken ; 

Low,  my  lute !  oh  low,  my  lute !  we  fade  and 
are  forsaken — 

Low,  dear  lute,  low! 

Take  it  away !  not  low  enough  for  me ! 

Alice.  Your  Grace  hath  a  low  voice. 

Mary.  How  dare  you  say  it  ? 

Even   for  that   he  hates  me.     A  low 

voice 
Lost  in  a  wilderness  where  none  can 

hear  ! 
A  voice  of  shipwreck  on  a  shoreless 

sea! 
A  low  voice  from  the  dust  and  from  the 

grave.      [Sitting  on  the  ground.) 
There,  am  I  low  enough  now .'' 

Alice.    Good    Lord !   how  grim   and 

ghastly  looks  her  Grace, 
With  both  her  knees  drawn  upward  to 

her  chin. 
There  was  an  old-world  tomb  beside 

my  father's. 
And   this   was   open'd,  and   the   dead 

were  found 
Sitting,  and  in  this  fashion;  she  look§ 

a  corpse. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


607 


Enter  Lady  Magdalen  Dacres. 

Lady  Magdalen.  Madam,  the  Count 
de  Feria  waits  without, 
In  hopes  to  see  your  Highness. 
Lady  Clarence  [pointing  to   Mary). 
Wait  he  must — 
Her  trance   again.     She  neither  sees 

nor  hears, 
And  may  not  speak  for  hours. 

Lady  Magdalen.  Unhappiest 

Of  Queens  and  wives  and  women. 
Alice  [in  the  foreground  with  LadY 
Magdalen).  And  all  along 
Of  Philip. 

Lady  Magdalen.  Not  so  loud  !     Our 

Clarence  there 

Sees  ever  such  an  aureole  round  the 

Queen,  [peace, 

It  gilds  the  greatest  wronger  of  her 

Who  stands  the  nearest  to  her. 

Alice.  Ay,  this  Philip; 

I  used  to  love  the  Queen  with  all  my 

heart —  [less 

God  help  me,  but  methinks  I  love  her 

For  such  a  dotage  upon  such  a  man. 

I  would  I  were  as  tall  and  strong  as 

you. 

Lady  Magdalen.  I  seem  half-shamed 

at  times  to  be  so  tall. 
Alice.  You  are  the  stateliest  deer  in 
all  the  herd — 
Beyond  his  aim — but  I  am  small  and 

scandalous, 
And  love  to  hear  bad  tales  of  Philip. 

Lady  Magdalen.  Why  .'' 

I  never  heard  him  utter  worse  of  you 
Than  that  you  were  low-statured. 

Alice.  Does  he  think 

Low   stature    is    low    nature,    or    all 

women's 
Low  as  his  own  "i 
Lady  Magdalen.  There  you  strike  in 
the  nail. 
This  coarseness  is  a  want  of  fantasy. 
It  is  the  low  man  thinks  the  woman 

low; 
Sin  is  too  dull  to  see  beyond  himself. 
Alice.  Ah,  Magdalen,  sin  is  bold  as 
well  as  dull. 
How  dared  he  ? 


Lady  Magdalen.  Stupid  soldiers  oft 
are  bold. 
Poor  lads,  they  see  not  what  the  gen- 
eral sees, 
A  risk  of  utter  ruin.     I  am  not 
Beyond  his  aim,  or  was  not. 

Alice.  Who  ?     Not  you  "i 

Tell,  tell  me  :  save  my  credit  with  my- 
self. 
Lady  Magdalen.  I  never  breathed  it 
to  a  bird  in  the  eaves, 
Would  not  for  all  the  stars  and  maiden 

moon 
Our  drooping   Queen  should    know! 

In  Hampton  Court 
My  window  look'd  upon  the  corridor ; 
And  I  was  robing ; — this  poor  throat 

of  mine. 
Barer  than  I  should  wish  a  man  to  see 

it  — 
When  he  we  speak  of  drove  the  win- 
dow back. 
And,  like  a  thief,  push'd  in  his  royal 

hand; 
But  by  God's  providence  a  good  stout 

staff 
Lay  near  me ;  and  you  know  me  strong 

of  arm ; 
I  do  believe  I  lamed  his  Majesty's 
For  a  day  or  two,  tho',  give  the  Devil 

his  due, 
I  never  found  he  bore  me  any  spite. 
Alice.  I  would  she  could  have  wed- 
ded that  poor  youth. 
My  Lord  of  Devon — light  enough,  God 

knows. 
And  mixt  with  Wyatt's  rising — and  the 

boy 
Not  out  of    him — but    neither    cold, 

coarse,  cruel. 
And  more  than  all — no  Spaniard. 

Lady  Clarence.  Not  so  loud. 

Lord  Devon,  girls  !  what  are  you  whis- 
pering here  ? 
Alice.  Probing  an  old  state  secret- 
how  it  chanced 
That  this  young  Earl  was  sent  on  for* 

eign  travel. 
Not  lost  his  head. 
Lady  Clarence.  There  was  no  proof 
against  him. 


6o8 


QUEEN  MARY, 


Alice.  Nay,   Madam ;   did   not   Gar- 
diner intercept 
A  letter  which  the  Count  de  Noailles 

wrote 
To  that  dead  traitor,  Wyatt,  with  full 

proof 
Of   Courtenay's   treason  ?     What  be- 
came of  that  ? 
Lady  Clarence.  Some  say  that  Gar- 
diner, out  of  love  for  him, 
Burnt  it,  and  some  relate  that  it  was 

lost 
When  Wyatt  sack'd  the  Chancellor's 

house  in  Southwark. 
Let  dead  things  rest. 

Alice.       Ay,  and  with  him  who  died 
Alone  in  Italy. 

Lady   Clarence,    Much    changed,    I 
hear, 
Had  put  off  levity  and  put  graveness 

on. 
The  foreign  courts  report  him  in  his 

manner 
Noble  as  his  young  person   and  old 

shield. 
It  might  be  so — but  all  is  over  now ; 
He   caught  a  chill  in  the  lagoons  of 

Venice, 
And  died  in  Padua. 

Mary  (looking  tip  suddenly).  Died  in 

the  true  faith } 
Lady  Clarence.  Ay,  Madam,  happily. 
Mary.  Happier  he  than  I. 
Lady  Magdalen.  It  seems  her  High- 
ness hath  awaken'd.     Think  you 
That  I  might  dare  to  tell  her  that  the 
Count — 
Mary.  I  will  see  no  man  hence  for- 
evermore. 
Saving  my  confessor  and  my  cousin 
Pole. 
Lady  Magdalen.  It  is  the  Count  de 

Feria,  my  dear  lady. 
Mary.  What  Count  ? 
Lady  Magdalen.  The  Count  de  Fe- 
ria, from  his  Majesty 
King  Philip. 
Mary.  Philip !    quick !    loop  up  my 
hair ! 
Throw   cushions    on    that    seat,   and 
make  it  throne-like. 


Arrange  my  dress — the  gorgeous  In 

dian  shawl 
That  Philip  brought  me  in  our  happy 

days  ! — 
That  covers  all.     So — am  I  somewhat 

Queenlike, 
Bride  of  the  mightiest  sovereign  upon 

earth  ? 
Lady  Clarence.   Ay,  so  your   Grace 

would  bide  a  moment  yet. 
Mary.  No,  no,  he  brings  a  letter.     I 

may  die 
Before  I  read  it.     Let  me  see  him  at 

once. 

Enter  Count  de  Feria  [kneels). 

Feria.  I   trust  your   Grace   is  well. 

(Aside)     How  her  hand  burns. 
Mary.  I  am  not  well,  but  it  will  bet- 
ter me. 
Sir  Count,  to  read  the  letter  which  you 
bring. 
Feria.  Madam,  I  bring  no  letter. 
Mary.  How!  no  letter.? 

Feria,  His  Highness  is  so  vex'd  with 

strange  affairs — 
Mary.  That  his  own  wife  is  no  affair 

of  his. 
Feria.  Nay,  Madam,  nay!    he  sends 
his  veriest  love. 
And  says,  he  will  come  quickly. 

Mary.  Doth  he,  indeed  ? 

You,  sir,  do  you  remember  what  you 

said 
When  last  you  came  to  England  ? 

Feria.  Madam,  I  brought 

My    King's    congratulations;    it    was 

hoped 
Your   Highness    was    once    more    in 

happy  state 
To  give  him  an  heir  male. 

Mary.  Sir,  you  said  more ; 

You  said  he  would  come  quickly.     I 

had  horses  [night ; 

On  all  the  road  from  Dover,  day  and 

On  all  the  road  from  Harwich,  night 

and  day  ; 
But  the  child  came  not,  and  the  has* 

band  came  not; 
And  yet  he  will  come  quickly.    .  . .  - 
Thou  hast  learnt 


QUEEN  MAR  Y. 


609 


Thy  lesson,  and  I  mine.     There  is  no 

need 
For  Philip  so  to  shame  himself  again. 
Return, 
And  tell  him  that  I  know  he  comes  no 

more. 
Tell   him   at   last  I  know  his  love   is 

dead. 
And  that  I  am  in  state  to  bring  forth 

death — 
Thou  art  commission'd  to  Elizabeth, 
And  not  to  me 

Feria.  Mere  compliments  and  wishes, 
But  shall  I  take  some  message  from 
your  Grace  ? 
Mary.  Tell  her  to  come  and  close 
my  dying  eyes. 
And  wear  my  crown,  and  dance  upon 
my  grave. 
Feria.  Then  I  may  say  your  Grace 
will  see  your  sister  ? 
Your  Grace  is  too  low-spirited.     Air 

and  sunshine. 
I  would  we  had  you,  Madam,  in  our 

warm  Spain. 
Vou  droop  in  your  dim  London. 

Mary.  Have  him  away, 

I  sicken  of  his  readiness. 

Lady  Clarence.  My  Lord  Count, 

1  Her  Highness  is  too  ill  for  colloquy. 

Feria  {kneels,  and  kisses  her  hand).    I 

wish  her  Highness  better.  [Aside.) 

How  her  hand  burns.        [^Exeunt. 

SCENE  HL— A    HOUSE    NEAR 
LONDON. 

Elizabeth.  Steward  of  the  House- 
hold, Attendants. 

Elizabeth.    There's    half    an    angel 
wrong' d  in  your  account ; 
Methinks  I  am  all  angel,  that  I  bear  it 
Without  more   ruffling.     Cast  it   o'er 
again. 
W^l^eward.    I   were    whole   devil   if  I 
|H|  wrong'd  you,  Madam. 
■^•^  [Exil  Steward. 

.<^^«^<7«/.  The  Count  de  Feria,  from 

the  King  of  Spain. 
Elizabeth.  Ah  ! — let  him  enter.  Nay, 
you  need  not  go .  [To  her  Ladies. 


Remain  within  the  chamber,  but  apart. 
We'll   have    no    private     conference. 
Welcome  to  England  ! 

Enter  Feria. 

Feria.  Fair  island  star. 
Elizabeth.  I  shine !     What  else, 

Count  .> 
Feria.    As  far  as  France,  and  into 
Philip's  heart. 
My  King  would  know  if  you  be  fairly 

served, 
And  lodged,  and  treated. 

Elizabeth.     You  see  the  lodging,  sir, 
I   am  well  served,  and   am  in   every 

thing 
Most  loyal  and  most  grateful   to  the 
Queen. 
Feria.  You  should  be  grateful  to  my 
master,  too. 
He  spoke  of  this ;  and  unto  him  you 
owe  [heir. 

That  Mary  hath  acknowledged  you  her 
Elizabeth.  No,  not  to  her  nor  him  ; 
but  to  the  people, 
Who  know  my  right,  and  love  me,  as  I 

love 
The  people  !  whom  God  aid  ! 

Feria.  You  will  be  Queen. 

And,  were  I  Philip — 
Elizabeth.    Wherefore   pause   you — 

what  ? 
Feria.  Nay,  but  I  speak  from  mine 
own  self,  not  him  : 
Your   royal   sister   cannot   last;   your 

hand 
Will  be  much  coveted  !     What  a  deli- 
cate one  ! 
Our  Spanish  ladies  have  none  such— 

and  there, 
Were  you  in  Spain,  this  fine  fair  gos- 
samer gold — 
Like   sun-gilt   breathings  on   a   frosty 

dawn — 
That  hovers  round  your  shoulder — 

Elizabeth.  Is  it  so  fine  ? 

Troth,  some  have  said  so. 

Feria.  — would   be   deemed   a   mir- 
acle. 
Elizabeth.    Your    Philip    hath   gold 
hair  and  golden  beard, 


6io 


QUEEN  MARY. 


There  must  be  ladies  many  with  hair 

]ike  mine. 
Feria.  Some   few   of   Gothic  blood 

have  golden  hair, 
But  none  like  yours. 
Elizabeth.  I  am  happy  you  approve 

it. 
Feria.   But   as   to   Philip   and   your 

Grace — consider, — 
If  such  a  one  as  you  should  match  with 

Spain, 
"What  hinders  but  that  Spain  and  Eng- 
land join'd, 
Should   make    the    mightiest    empire 

earth  has  known. 
Spain  would  be  England  on  her  seas, 

and  England 
Mistress  of  the  Indies. 

Elizabeth.  It  may  chance,  that  Eng- 
land 
Will  be  the  mistress  of  the  Indies  yet, 
Without  the  help  of  Spain. 

Feria.  Impossible ; 

Except  you  put  Spain  down. 
Wide  of  the  mark  ev'n  for  a  madman's 

dream. 
Elizabeth.    Perhaps  ;    but   we    have 

seamen.     Count  de  Feria, 
I  take  it  that  the  King  hath  spoken  to 

you ; 
But   is   Don   Carlos    such    a    goodly 

match  ? 
Feria.  Don  Carlos,   Madam,  is  but 

twelve  years  old. 
Elizabeth.  Ay,   tell  the  king  that  I 

will  muse  upon  it ; 
He  is  my  good  friend,  and  I   would 

keep  him  so ; 
But — he  would  have  me  Catholic  of 

Rome,  [now 

And  that  I  scarce  can  be ;  and,  sir,  till 
My  sister's  marriage,  and  my  father's 

marriages, 
Make  me  full  fain  to  live  and  die  a 

maid. 
But   I    am  much  beholden    to    your 

King. 
Have  you  aught  else  to  tell  me  ? 

Feria.  Nothing,  Madam, 

Save  that  methought  I  gather'd  from 

the  Queen 

i 


That  she  would  see  your  Grace  before 

she — died. 
Elizabeth.  God's  death  !  and  where- 
fore spake  you  not  before  .-* 
We  dally  with  our  lazy  moments  here, 
And  hers  are  number' d.    Horses  there  I 

without! 
I  am  much  beholden  to  the  King,  your 

master. 
Why     did    you    keep     me     prating  ? 

Horses,  there ! 

\Exit,  Elizabeth,  etc. 
Feria.  So  from  a  clear  sky  falls  the 

thunderbolt  ! 
Don   Carlos?     Madam,  if  you   marry 

Philip, 
Then  I  and  he  will  snaffle  your  "  God's 

death," 
And  break  your  paces   in,  and  make 

you  tame ; 
God's   death,   forsooth  —  you   do   not 

know  King  Philip.  [Exit. 

SCENE  IV.— LONDON.    BEFORE 
THE  PALACE. 

A  light  burning  within.      Voices  ofth\ 

night  passing. 

First.  Is  not  yon  light  in  the  Queen's 

chamber  1 
Second.  Ay, 

They  say  she's  dying. 

First.  So  is  Cardinal  Pol< 

May  the  great  angels  join  their  wings 

and  make 
Down  for  their  heads  to  heaven  ! 
Second.   Amen.     Come  on.  \ExcHj:t. 

Tvv^o  Others. 

First.  There's  the  Queen's  light.     I 

hear  she  cannot  live. 
Second.  God  curse  her  and  her  Leg- 
ate !     Gardiner  burns 
Already ;  but  to  pay  them  full  in  kind, 
The  hottest  hold  in  all  the  devil's  den^ 
Were   but   a  sort   of   winter;    sir,   inj 

Guernsey, 
I  watch'd  a  woman  burn;  and  in  het, 
agony  • 


QUEEN  MARY, 


Oil 


The  mother  came  upon  her — a  child 

was  born — 
And,  sir,  they  hurl'd  it  back   into  the 

fire, 
That,  being  but  baptized  in  fire,  the 

babe 
Might  be   in  fire  forever.    Ah,  good 

neighbor. 
There  should  be  something  fierier  than 

fire 
To  yield  them  their  deserts. 

First.  Amen  to  all 

You  wish,  and  further. 

A  Third  Voice.  Deserts  !  Amen  to 
what?  Whose  deserts .?  Yours?  You 
have  a  gold  ring  on  your  finger,  and 
soft  raiment  about  your  body;  and  is 
not  the  woman  up  yonder  sleeping  af- 
ter all  she  has  done,  in  peace  and 
quietness,  on  a  soft  bed,  in  a  closed 
room,  with  light,  fire,  physic,  tendance; 
and  I  have  seen  the  true  men  of 
Christ  lying  famine-dead  by  scores,  and 
under  no  ceiling  but  the  cloud  that 
wept  on  them,  not  for  them. 

First.  Friend,  tho'  so  late,  it  is  not 

safe  to  preach. 
You   had  best  go  home.     What  are 

you  ? 
Third.  What  am  I  ?  One  who  cries 
continually  with  sweat  and  tears  to  the 
Lord  God  tliat  it  would  please  Him 
out  of  His  infinite  love  to  break  down 
all  kingship  and  queenship,  all  priest- 
hood and  prelacy ;  to  cancel  and  abol- 
ish all  bonds  of  human  allegiance,  all 
the  magistracy,  all  the  nobles,  and  all  the 
wealthy;  and  to  send  us  again,  accord- 
ing to  his  promise,  the  one  King,  the 
Christ,  and^  all  things  in  common,  as 
in  the  day  "of  the  first  church,  when 
Christ  Jesus  was  King. 
First.  If  ever  I  heard  a  madman, — 

let's  away ! 
Why,    you   long-winded — Sir,   you   go 

beyond  me. 
I  pride  myself  on  being  moderate. 
Good-night !     Go  home  !    Besides,  you 

curse  so  loud. 
The   watch   will   hear  you.     Get   you 

bgme  at  once.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  v.— LONDON.     AROOM 
IN  THE  PALACE. 

A  Gallery  on  one  side.  The  moonlight 
streaming  through  a  range  of  witidozas 
on  the  wall  opposite.  Mary,  Lady 
Clarence,  Lady  Magdalen  Da- 
CRES,  Alice.  Queen  pacing  the 
Gallery.  A  writing-table  in  front. 
Queen  comes  to  the  table  and  writes 
and  goes  again,  pacing  the  Gallery. 

Lady  Clarence.  Mine  eyes  are  dim : 

what  hath  she  written  ?  read. 
Alice.  *'  I  am  dying,  Philip  ;  come  to 

me.' 
Lady    Magdalen.     There  —  up   and 

down,  poor  lady,  up  and  down. 
Alice.  And  how  her  shadow  crosses 
one  by  one 
The  moonlight  casements  pattern 'd  on 

the  wall. 
Following  her  like  her  sorrow.     She 
turns  again.  {again. 

[Queen  sits  and  writes,  and  goes 
Lady  Clarence.   What  hath  she  writ- 
ten now  ? 
Alice.    Nothing:    but  "come,  come, 
come,"  and  all  awry, 
And  blotted  by  her  tears.     This  can- 
not last.  [Queen  returns. 
Mary.  I  whistle  to  the  bird  has  bro- 
ken cage, 
And  all  in  vain.  [Sitting  down. 
Calais  gone — Guisnes  gone,  too — and 
Philip  gone ! 
Lady  Clarence.  Dear  Madam,  Philip 
is  but  at  the  wars ; 
I   cannot  doubt  but  that    he    comes 

again  ; 
And  he  is  with  you  in  a  measure  still. 
I  never  look'd  upon  so  fair  a  likeness 
As  your  great  King  in  armor  there,  his 

hand 
Upon  his  helmet. 

[Pointing  to  the  portrait  ^PHILIP 

on  the  wall. 

Mary.  Doth  he  not  look  noble  ? 

I  had  heard  of  him  in  battle  over  seas. 

And  I  would  have  my  warrior  all  in 

arms. 


6I2 


QUEEN  MARY. 


He  said   it  was   not  courtly  to  stand 

helmeted 
Before    the  Queen.     He  had  his  gra- 
cious moment 
Altho'  you'll  not  believe  me.     How  he 

smiles 
A.S  if  he  loved  me  yet ! 
Lady  Clarence.  And  so  he  does. 

Mary.    He  never  loved  me — nay,  he 

could  not  love  me. 
[t    was    his    father's    policy    against 

France. 
I  am  eleven  years  older  than  he, 
Poor  boy.  [  Weeps. 

Alice.  That  was  a  lusty  boy  of  twen- 
ty-seven ;  {Aside. 
Poor  enough  in  God's  grace  ! 

Mary.  — And  all  in  vain  ! 

The  Queen  of  Scots  is  married  to  the 

Dauphin, 
And  Charles,  the  lord  of  this  low  world, 

is  gone; 
And  all  his  wars  and  wisdoms  past 

away  ; 
And  in  a  moment  I  shall  follow  him. 
Lady  Clarence.     Nay,  dearest  Lady, 

see  your  good  physician. 
Mary.     Drugs— but  he  knows  they 

cannot  help  me — says 
That  rest  is  all — tells  me  I  must  not 

think- 
That  I  must  rest — I  shall  rest  by  and 

by. 
Catch  the  wild  cat,  cage  him,  and  when 

he  springs 
And  maims  himself  against  the  bars, 

say  "  rest :  " — 
Why,  you  must  kill  him  if  you  would 

have  him  rest — 
Dead  or  alive  you  cannot  make  him 

happy. 
Lady  Clarence.     Your  Majesty  has 

lived  so  pure  a  life, 
And  done  such  mighty  things  by  Holy 

Church, 
I  trust  that  God  will  make  you  happy 

yet. 
Mary.     What  is  the  strange  thing 

happiness.?     Sit  down  here  : 
TeH  me  thine  happiest  hour. 

Lady  Clarence.  I  will,  if  that 


May  make  your  Grace  forget  yourseli 

a  little. 
There  runs  a  shallow  brook  across  our 

field 
For  twenty  miles,   where    the   black 

crow  flies  five, 
And  doth  so  bound  and  babble  all  the 

way 
As  if  itself  were  happy.     It  was  May 

time, 
And   I  was  walking  with   the   man  I 

loved. 
I  loved  him,  but  I  thought  I  was  not 

loved. 
And  both  were  silent,  letting  the  wild 

brook 
Speak  for   us  —  till   he    stoop'd   and 

gather'd  one  [nots, 

From   out   a   bed  of  thick  forget-me- 
Look'd  hard  and  sweet  at  me,  and  gave 

it  me, 
I  took  it,  tho'  I  did  not  know  I  took 

it, 
And  put  it  in  my  bosom,  and  all  at 

once 
I  felt  his  arms  about  me,  and  his  lips— 
Mary.    O   God!    I   have   been   too 

slack ; 
There  are  Hot  Gospellers  even  among 

our  guards — 
Nobles  we  dared  not  touch.     We  have 

but  burnt 
The     heretic    priest,    workmen,    and 

women  and  children. 
Wet,  famine,  ague,fever,  storm,  wreck, 

wrath, — 
We  have  so  play'd  the  coward ;  but  by 

God's  grace, 
We'll  follow  Philip's  leading,  and  set 

up 
The   Holy  Office  here  — -garner   the 

wheat. 
And  burn  the  tares  with  unquenchable 

fire! 
Burn ! — 
Fie,  what  a  savor !  tell  the  cooks  to 

close 
The  doors  of  all  the  offices  below. 
Latimer  ! 
Sir,  we   are   private  with  our  women 

here — 


a 


QVEEN  MARY. 


613 


Ever  a  rough,  blunt,  and  uncourtly  fel- 
low— 
Thou  light  a  torch  that  never  will  go 

out  ! 
'Tis   out — mine   flames.     Women,  the 

Holy  Father 
Has   ta'en   the    legateship  from    our 

cousin  Pole — 
Was   that  well  done  ?  and  poor  Pole 

pines  of  it, 
As   I  do,  to  the  death.     I   am  but  a 

woman, 
I  have  no  power. — Ah,  weak  and  meek 

old  man, 
Sevenfold  dishonor'd  even  in  the  sight 
Of  thine  own  sectaries — No,  no.     No 

pardon ! — 
Why  that  was  false :  there  is  the  right 

hand  still 
Beckons  me  hence. 
Sir,  you  were  burnt  for  heresy,  not  for 

treason. 
Remember  that!  'twas  I  and  Bonner 

did  it. 
And  Pole ;  we  are  three  to  one — Have 

you  found  mercy  there. 
Grant  it  me  here :  and  see,  he  smiles 

and  goes, 
Gentle  as  in  life. 

Alice.    Madam,   who    goes  "i      King 

Philip  .? 
Mary.  No,  Philip  comes  and  goes, 

but  never  goes. 
Women,  when  I  am  dead, 
Open  my  heart,  and  there  you  will  find 

written 
Two  names,  Philip  and  Calais;  open 

his, — 
So  that  he  1  ave  one, — 
You  will  find  Philip  only,  policy,  pol- 
icy,— 
Ay,  worse  than  that— not  one  hour  true 

to  me  ! 
Foul   maggots   crawling  in   a  fester'd 

vice  ! 
Adulterous  to  the  very  heart  of  Hell. 
Hast  thou  a  knife .? 
Alice.    Ay,    Madam,    but    o'   God's 

mercy — 
Mary.  Fool,  think'st  thou  I  would 

peril  mine  own  soul 


By  slaughter  of  the   body  >.     I  could 

not,  girl, 
Not  this  way — callous  with  a  constant 

stripe, 
Unwoundable.    Thy  knife ! 

Alice.  Take  heed,  take  heed  ! 

The  blade  is  keen  as  death. 

Mary.  This  Philip  shall  not 

Stare  in  upon  me  in  my  haggardness ; 
Old,  miserable,  diseased. 
Incapable   of  children.       Come   thou 

down. 

\Cuts  out  the  picture  and  throws  it 
dozun. 
Lie  there.     {Wails.)     O  God,  I  have 

killed  my  Philip. 
Alice.  No, 

Madam,  you  have  but  cut  the  canvas 

out, 
We  can  replace  it. 

Mary.  All  is  well  then ;  rest — 

I  will  to  rest;   he   said  I  must  have 

rest. 

\Cries    of   *'  ELIZABETH "   in    the 
street. 
A  cry  !    What's  that  ?    Elizabeth  ?    re- 
volt? 
A     new     Northumberland,      another 

Wyatt  > 
I'll   fight  it  on  the   threshold  of  the 

grave. 
Lady  Clarence.   Madam,  your  royal 

sister  comes  to  see  you. 
Mary.  I  will  not  see  her. 
Who  knows   if  Boleyn's  daughter  be 

my  sister  "i 
I  will  see  none  except  the  priest.   Your 

arm.  YTo  Lady  Clarence. 

O    Saint   of  Aragon,  with  that   sweet 

worn  smile 
Among  thy  patient  wrinkles — Help  me 

hence.  {^Exeunt. 

The  V'^Y^'SV passes.    £nter  Elizabeth 
and  Sir  William  Cecil. 

Elizabeth.  Good  counsel  yours — 

No  one  in  waiting?  still. 
As   if  the    chamberlain   were    Death 

himself  ! 
The  room  she  sleeps  in — is  not  this  tho 
way? 


6i4 


QUEEN  MARY. 


No,  that  way  there  are  voices.  Am  I 
too  late  ? 

Cecil  .  .  .  God  guide  me  lest  I  lose 
the  way.  \^Exit  Elizabeth. 

Cecil.  Many  points  weather'd,  many 
perilous  ones, 

At  last  a  harbor  opens  ;  but  therein 

Sunk  rocks — they  need  fine  steering — 
much  it  is 

To  be  nor  mad,  nor  bigot — have  a 
mind — 

Not  let  Priests'  talk,  or  dream  of 
worlds  to  be, 

Miscolor  things  about  her  —  sudden 
touches 

For  him,  or  him — sunk  rocks ;  no  pas- 
sionate faith — 

But — if  let  be — balance  and  compro- 
mise; 

Brave,  wary,  sane  to  the  heart  of  her — 
a  Tudor 

School'd  by  the  shadow  of  death — a 
Boleyn,  too. 

Glancing  across  the  Tudor — not  so 
well. 

Enter  ALICE. 

How  is  the  good  Queen  now  ? 

Alice.  Away  from  Philip. 

Back  in   her   childhood — prattling   to 

her  mother 
Of    her    betrothal    to    the    Emperor 

Charles, 
And   childlike-jealous   of  him  again — 

and  once 
She  thank'd  her  father  sweetly  for  his 

book 
Against    that  godless   German.     Ah, 

those  days 
Were    happy.       It  was  never  merry 

world 
In  England,  since    the    Bible    came 

among  us. 
Cecil.  And  who  says  that  } 
Alice.    It   is    a    saying    among   the 

Catholics. 
Cecil.    It  never  will  be  merry  world 

in  England 


Till  all  men  have  their  Bible,  rich  and 
poor. 
Alice.  The  Queen  is  dying,  or  you 
dare  not  say  it. 

Enter  ELIZABETH. 

Elizabeth.  The  Queen  is  dead. 
Cecil.    Then   here  she   stands  I   my 

homage. 
Elizabeth.    She  knew  me,   and  ac- 
knowledged me  her  heir, 

Pray'd  me  to  pay  her  debts,  and  keep 
the  Faith ; 

Then  claspt  the  cross,  and  pass'd  away 
in  peace. 

I  left  her  lying  still  and  beautiful, 

More    beautiful   than   in   life.       Why 
would  you  vex  yourself. 

Poor  sister  ?     Sir,  I  swear  I  have  no 
heart 

To  be  your  Queen.     To  reign  is  rest- 
less fence, 

Tierce,  quart,  and  trickery.     Peace  is 
with  the  dead. 

Her  life  was  winter,  for  her  Spring  was 
nipt  : 

And  she  loved  much :  pray  God  she  be 
forgiven. 
Cecil.    Peace    with  the    dead,   who 
never  were  at  peace  ! 

Yet  she  loved  one  so  much — I  needs 
must  say — 

That  never  English  monarch  dying  left 

England  so  little. 
Elizabeth.  But  with  Cecil's  aid 

And  others,  if  our  person  be  secured 

From  traitor  stabs — we  will  make  Eng- 
land great. 

Enter  Paget  and  other  Lords  of  the 
Council,  Sir  Ralph  Bagenhall, 
etc. 

Lords.    God    save    Elizabeth,    the 

Queen  of  England  ! 
Bagenhall.  God    save    the    Crown : 

the  Papacy  is  no  more. 
Paget  [aside).  Are  we  so  sure  of  that  ? 
Acclamation.    God  save  the  Queen  / 


HAROLD 


To  His  Excellency 
THE  RIGHT  HON.  LORD  LYTTON, 

VICEROY  AND    GOVERNOR-GENERAL  OF  INDIA. 

My  dhar  Lord  Lytton,  — After  old-world  records,— such  as  the  Bayeux  tapestry  and  tHj 
Roman  de  Rou,— Edward  Freeman's  History  of  the  Norman  Conquest,  and  your  father's  His- 
torical Romance  treating  of  the  same  times,  have  been  mainly  helpful  to  me  in  writing  thi» 
Drama.  Your  father  dedicated  his  *'  Harold  "  to  my  father's  brother  ;  allow  me  tc  dedicate  my 
»'  Harold  "  to  yourself.  A.  Tenmyson. 

SHOW-DAY  AT  BATTLE  ABBEY,  1876. 

A  GARDEN  here — May  breath  and  bloom  of  Spring— 

The  cuckoo  yonder  from  an  English  elm 

Crying  "  with  my  false  egg  I  overwhelm 

The  native  nest :  "  and  fancy  hears  the  ring 

Of  harness,  and  that  deathful  arrow  sing. 

And  Saxon  battle-axe  clang  on  Norman  helm. 

Here  rose  the  dragon-banner  of  our  realm  : 

Here  fought,  here  fell,  our  Norman-slander'  d  king, 

O  Garden  blossoming  out  of  English  blood ! 

O  strange  hate-healer  Time  !     We  stroll  and  stare 

Where  might  made  right  eight  hundred  years  ago  ; 

Might,  right?   ay  good,  so  all  things  make  for  good— 

But  he  and  he,  if  soul  be  soul,  are  where 

Each  stands  full  face  with  all  he  did  below. 

DRAMATIS  PERSONiE. 

King  Edward  the  Confessor. 

Stigand  {created  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  by  the  Antipope  Benedict^* 

^LDRED  {Archbishop  of  YorU). 

The  Norman  Bishop  of  London. 

Harold^  Earl  of  Wessex,  afterwards  King  of  England 

TosTiG,  Karl  of  Northumbria 

GuRTH,  Earl  of  East  A  nglia  •  {Sons  of  Godwin), 

Leofwin,  Earl  of  Kent  and  Essex 

wulfnoth 

Count  William  of  Normandy. 

William   Rufus. 

William  Mk-lb-T*  {a  Norman  Noble), 

^^y^m,  Earl  of  Mercia  ^..\{SonsofAlfgar  of  Merct*^ 

mov.CK-R,  Earl  of  Northufnbria  after  FosttgS  j      jf>         j  <~ 

Gamel  {a  Northumbrian  Thane). 

Guv  {Count  of  Pont hieu). 

Rolf  {a  Ponthieu  Fisherman). 

Hugh  Margot  {a  Norman  Monk). 

OsGOD  rt«<f  Athelric  {Canons  from   Waltham). 

The  Queen  {Edward  the  Co7ifessor's  Wife,  Daughter  of  Godwiti). 

Aldwyth  {Daughter  of  a  If ^r  and  Widow  of  Griff yth,  King  ofWales\ 

Edith  {Ward ^ King  Edward). 

Courtiers,  Earls  and  Thanes,  Men-at-A  rms,  Canons  of  Waltham,  Fishermen,  eiC, 

*  Compater  Hcraldi,  quidam  partim  Normannus  et  Anglus.     City  of  Amiens. 


ei6 


HAROLD. 


ACT  T. 

SCENE  I.— LONDON.     THE 
KING'S  PALACE. 

iA  comet  seen  through  the  open  window. ) 

Aldwyth,    Gamel,    Courtiers 

[talking  together). 
First  Courtier.  Lo  I  there  once  more 
— this  is  the  seventh  night ! 
Yon  grimly-glaring,   treble-brandish'd 

scourge 
Of  England ! 

Second  Courtier.  Horrible ! 
First  Coiu-tier.  Look  you,  there's  a 
star 
That  dances  in  it  as  mad  with  agony ! 
Third  Courtier.  Ay,  like  a  spirit  in 
hell  who  skips  and  flies 
To  right  and  left,  and  cannot  scape  the 
flame. 
Second   Courtier.    Steam'd     upward 
from  the  undescendible 
Abysm 
First  Courtier.  Or  floated  downward 
from  the  throne 
Of  God  Almighty. 

Aldwyth.  Gamel,  son  of  Orm, 

What  thinkest  thou  this  means ,-' 

Gamel.  War,  my  dear  lady ! 

Aldivyth.  Doth  this  affright  thee  ? 
Gamel.  Mightily,  my  dear  lady ! 

Aldwyth.    Stand   by  me   then,   and 
look  upon  my  face. 
Not  on  the  comet. 

Enter  Morcap. 

Brother  !  why  so  pale .'' 

Morcar.  It  glares  in  heaven,  it  flares 

upon  the  Thames, 

The  people  are  as  thick  as  bees  below, 

They   hum    like    bees, — they    cannot 

fpeak — for  awe; 
Look  to  the  skies,  then  to  the  river, 

strike 
Their  hearts,  and  hold  their  babies  up 

to  it. 
I  think  that  they  would  Molochize  them 

too, 
To  have  the  heavens  clear, 
Aldwyth.  They  fright  not  me. 


Enter  Leofwin,  after  him  Gurth. 
Ask  thou  Lord  Leofwin  what  he  thinks 
of  this  ! 
Morcar.  Lord  Leofwin,  dost  thou  be« 
lieve  that  these 
Three  rods  of  blood-red  fire  up  yonder 

means 
The  doom  of  England  and  the  wrath 
of  Heaven  ? 
Bishop  of  Lojtdon  [passing).    Did  ye 
not  cast  with  bestial  violence 
Our  holy  Norman  bishops  down  from 

all 
Their   thrones   in   England?     I  alone 

remain. 
Why  should  not  Heaven  be  wroth  ? 
Leofwin.  With  us,  or  thee  ? 

Bishop  of  London.  Did  ye    not   out' 
law  your  archbishop  Robert, 
Robert  of  Jumieges — well-nigh  murder 

him  too  } 
Is   there  no   reason  for  the  wrath  of 
Heaven  } 
Leofwifi.   Why   then   the   wrath  of 
Heaven  hath  three  tails, 
The  devil  only  one. 

[Exit  Bishop  of  London. 

Enter  Archbishop  Stigand, 

Ask  our  Archbishop. 
Stigand  should  know  the  purposes  of 
Heaven. 
Stigand.  Not  I.     I  cannot  read  the 
face  of  heaven. 
Perhaps  our  vines  will  grow  the  better 
for  it. 
Leofwin  [laughing).  He  can  but  read 

the  king's  face  on  his  coins. 
Stigand.  Ay,  ay,  young  lord,  there  the 

king's  face  is  power. 
Gurth.  O  father,  mock  not  at  a  pub- 
lic fear, 
But  tell   us,  is  this   pendent  hell  in 

heaven 
A  harm  to  England  ? 

Stigand.         Ask  it  of  King  Edward! 
And  may  he  tell  thee,  /  am  a  harm  to 

England. 
Old  uncanonical  Stigand — ask  of  me 
Who  had  my  pallium  from  an  Anti« 
pope  I 


HAROLD. 


617 


Not  he  the  man — for  in   our  windy- 
world 
What's   up   is   faith,   what's   down   is 

heresy. 
Our   friends,  the    Normans,   holp   to 

shake  his  chair. 
I  have  a  Norman  fever  on  me,  son, 
And   cannot  answer  sanely.  . .  .  What 

it  means  ? 
A.sk  our  broad  Earl 

[Poiniing  to  HAROLD,  who  efiters. 
Harold  {seeing  Gam^i).  Hail,  Gamel, 
son  of  Orm ! 
Albeit  no  rolling  stone,  my  good  friend 

Gamel, 
Thou  hast  rounded  since  we  met.  Thy 

life  at  home 
Is  easier  than  mine  here.     Look  !  am 

I  not 
Work-wan,  flesh-fallen  ? 

Gamel.        Art  thou  sick,  good  Earl  ? 
Harold.  Sick  as  an  autumn  swallow 
for  a  voyage, 
Sick  for  an   idle  week  of  hawk  and 

hound 
Beyond  the  seas — a  change  I     When 
earnest  thou  hither  ? 
Gamel.  To-day,  good  Earl. 
Harold.  Is  the  North  quiet,  Gamel  ? 
Gamel.  Nay,  there  be  nmrmurs,  for 
thy  brother  breaks  us 
N\  ith  over-taxing — quiet,  ay,  as  yet — 
Nothing  as  yet. 
Harold.    Stand   by   him,   mine    old 
friend,     , 
Thou  art  a  great  voice  in  Northumber- 
land ! 
Advise   him :  speak  him  sweetly,   he 

will  hear  thee. 
Kcj  is  passionate  but  honest.     Stand 

thou  by  him ! 
More   talk   of  this   to-morrow,  if  yon 

weird  sign 
Not  blast   us   in   our  dreams. — Well, 
father  Stigand — 

{To  Stigand,  who  advances  to  him. 
Stigand  (poiitting  to  the  comet).  War 
there,  my  son  }  is  that  the  doom  of 
England.? 
Harold.  Why  not  the  doom  of  all  the 
world  as  well } 


For  all  the  world  sees  it  as  well  as 

England. 
These  meteors  came  and  went  before 

our  day, 
Not  harming  any :  it  threatens  us  no 

more 
Than  French  or  Norman.     War  ?  the 

worst  that  follows 
Things   that  seem  jerk'd  out  of  the 

common  rut 
Of  Nature  is  the  hot  religious  fool, 
Who,  seeing  war  in  heaven,  for  heav 

en's  credit 
Makes  it  on  earth:  but  look,  where 

Edward  draws 
A  faint  foot  hither,  leaning  upon  Tos- 

tig- 
He  hath  learnt  to  love  our  Tostig  much 
of  late. 
Leofwin.  And  he  hath  learnt,  despite 
the  tiger  in  him, 
To  sleek  and  supple  himself  to  the 
king's  hand. 
Gurth.  I  trust  the  kingly  touch  that 
cures  the  evil 
May  serve  to  charm  the  tiger  out  of 
him. 
Leofwin.  He  hath  as  much  of  cat  as 
tiger  in  him. 
Our  Tostig  loves  the  hand  and  not  the 
man. 
Harold.     Nay  !     Better  die  than  lie  ! 

Enter  KiNG,  Queen  and  Tostig. 
Edward.  In  heaven  signs ! 

Signs  upon  earth  !  signs  everywhere  ! 

your  Priests 
Gross,  worldly,  simoniacal,  unlearn'd  ! 
They  scarce  can   read  their  Psalter  ; 

and  your  churches 
Uncouth,  unhandsome,  while  in  Nor- 

manland 
God  speaks  thro'  abler  voices,  as  He 

dwells 
In  statelier  shrines.     I  say  not  this,  as 

being 
Half  Norman-blooded,   nor,   as   some 

have  held, 
Because  I  love  the  Norman  better — no, 
But  dreading  God's  revenge  upon  this 

realm 


For  narrowness  and  coldness :  and  I 

say  it 
For  the  last  time  perchance,  before  I 

go 
To  find  the  sweet  refreshment  of  the 

Saints. 
I  have  lived  a  life  of  utter  purity  : 
I  have  builded  the  great  church  of  Holy 

Peter  : 
I  have  wrought  miracles — to  God  the 

glory— 
And  miracles    will   in    my  name   be 

wrought 
Hereafter. — I  have  fought  the  fight  and 

go— 
I  see  the  flashing  of  the  gates  of  pearl — 
And  it  is  well  with  me,  tho'  some  of 

you 
Have  scorn'd  me — ay — but  after  I  am 

gone 
Woe,  woe  to  England!    I  have  had  a 

vision  ; 
The  seven   sleepers    in  the    cave  at 

Ephesus 
Have  turn'd  from  ri^^ht  to  left. 

Harold.  My  most  dear  Master, 

What  matters  ?  let  them  turn  from  left 

to  right 
And  sleep  again. 

Tostig.         Too  hardy  with  thy  king  I 
A  life  of  prayer  and  fasting  well  may 

see 
beeper  into  the  mysteries  of  heaven 
Than  thou,  good  brother. 

Aldzvyth  (aside).     Sees  he  into  thine, 
That  thou  wouldst  have  his  promise  for 

the  crown  } 
Edward.  Tostig  says  true ;  my  son, 

thou  art  too  hard. 
Not  stagger'd  by  this  ominous  earth 

and  heaven . 
But  heaven  and  earth   are  threads  of 

the  same  loom, 
Play  into  one  another,  and  weave  the 

web 
That  may  confound  thee  yet. 

Harold.  Nay,  I  trust  not, 

For  I  have  served  thee  long   and  hon- 
estly. 
Edward.    I  know  it,  son ;   I  am   not 
thankless:  thou 


Hast  broken  all  my  foes,  lighten'd  foi 

me 
The  weight  of  this  poor  crown,  and  left 

me  time 
And  peace  for  prayer  to  gain  a  better 

one. 
Twelve    years    of  service !     England 

loves  thee  for  it. 
Thou  art  the  man  to  rule  her  I 

Aldwyth  {aside).  So,  not  Toetigt 

Harold.    And    after    those    twelve 
years  a  boon,  my  king. 
Respite,  a  holiday  ;  thyself  wast  wont 
To  love  the  chase  :  thy  leave  to  set  my 

feet 
On  board,  and  hunt  and  hawk  beyona 
the  seas  ! 
Edward.    What,   with    this  flaming 

horror  overhead  1 
Harold.  Well,  when  it  passes  then. 
Edward.  Ay,  if  it  pass. 

Go  not  to  Normandy — go  not  to  Nor- 
mandy. 
Harold.  And  wherefore  not,  my  king, 
to  Normandy  } 
Is  riot  my  brother  Wulfnoth  hostage 

there 
For  my  dead  father's  loyalty  to  thee  .«* 
I  pray  thee,  let  me  hence  and  bring 
him  home. 
Edward.  Not  thee,  my  son  :    some 

other  messenger. 
Harold.  And  why  not  me,  my  lord, 
to  Normandy.? 
Is  not  the  Norman  Count  thy  friend 
and  mine  .-• 
Edward.  I  pray  thee,  do  not  go  to 

Normandy. 
Harold.     Because  my  father  drove 
the  Normans  out 
Of   England  ? — That  was  many  a  sum- 
mer gone — 
Forgotten   and  forgiven   by  them  and 
thee. 
Edward.  Harold,    I   will   not   yield 

thee  leave  to  go. 
Harold.  Why,  then,  to  Flanders.     I 
will  hawk  and  hunt 
In  Flanders. 

Edward.  Be  there  not  fair  woods  and 
fields 


HAROLD. 


619 


In  England  ?  Wilful,  wilful.     Go— the 

Saints 
Pilot  and  prosper  all  thy  wandering  out 
And  homeward.     Tostig,  I  am   faint 

again. 
Son  Harold,  I  will  in   and   pray  for 

thee. 

\^Exit,  leaning  on  TosTiG,  and  fol- 
lowed by  STIGAND,  MORCAR,a«rf' 

Courtiers. 
Harold.  What  lies  upon  the  mind  of 
our  good  king 
That  he  should  harp  this  way  on  Nor- 
mandy ? 
Queen.    Brother,   the  king  is  wiser 
than  he  seems ; 
And  Tostig  knows  it ;  Tostig  loves  the 
king. 
Harold.  And  love  should  know ;  and 
— be  the  king  so  wise, — 
Then  Tostig  too  were  wiser  than  he 

seems. 
I  love  the  man  but  not  his  fantasies. 

Re-enter  ToSTiG. 
Well,  brother, 

When  didst  thou  hear  from  thy  North- 
umbria .? 
Tostig.  When  did  I  hear  aught  but 
this  "  When  "  from  thee  ? 
Leave  me  alone,  brother,  with  my  Nor- 

thumbria : 
She  is  viy  mistress,  let  me  look  to  her ! 
The  king  hath  made  me   Earl ;  make 

me  not  fool  I 
Nor  make  the  King  a  fool,  who  made 
me  Earl  ! 
Harold.    No,  Tostig — lest  I    make 
myself  a  fool 
Who  made  the  King  who  made  thee, 
make  the  Earl. 
Tostig.  Why  chafe  me,  then  ?    Thou 

knowest  I  soon  go  wild. 
Gurth.    Come,  come !   as    yet  thou 
art  not  gone  so  wild 
But  thou  canst  hear  the  best  and  wisest 
of  us. 
Harold.  So  says  old   Gurth,  not  I ; 
yet  hear !  thine  earldom, 
Tostig,  hath  been  a  kingdom.     Their 
old  crown 


Is  yet  a  force  among  them,  a  sun  set 
But  leaving  light  enough  tor  Alfgar's 

house 
To   strike   thee    down   by — nay,  this 

ghastly  glare 
May  heat  their  fancies. 

Tostig.         My  most  worthy  brother, 
That  art  the  quietest  man  in  all  the 

world —  [war- 

Ay,  ay,  and  wise  in  peace  and  great  in 
Pray  God  the  people  choose  thee  for 

their  king  I 
But .  all  the  powers  of  the   house   of 

Godwin 
Are  not  enframed  in  thee. 

Harold.  Thank  the  Saints,  no  ! 

But  thou  hast  drain'd  them  shallow  by 

thy  tolls. 
And  thou   art  ever    here  about    the 

King: 
Thine  absence  well  may  seem  a  want 

of  care. 
Cling  to  their  love ;  for,  now  the  sons 

of  Godwin 
Sit  topmost  in  the  field  of  England, 

envy, 
Like  the  rough  bear  beneath  the  tree, 

good  brother, 
Waits  till  the  man  let  go. 

Tostig.  Good  counsel,  truly  I 

I  heard  from  my  Northumbria  yester- 
day. 
Harold.  How  goes  it  then  with  thy 

Northumbria  ?     Well  ? 
Tostig.    And   wouldst  thou    that   it 

went  aught  else  than  well  ? 
Harold.  I  would  it  went  as  well  as 

with  mine  earldom, 
Leof win's  and  Gurth' s. 

Tostig.  Ye  govern  milder  men. 

Gurth    We  have  made  them  milder 

by  just  government. 
Tostig.  Ay,  ever  give  yourselves  your 

own  good  word. 
Leo/win.  An  honest  gift,  by  all  the 

Saints,  if  giver 
And  taker  be   but  honest !    but  they 

bribe 
Each  other,  and  so  often,  an  hone^ 

world 
Will  not  believe  them. 


620 


HAROLD, 


Harold.  I  may  teil  thee,  Tostig, 

I  heard  from  thy  Northumberland  to- 
day. 
Tostig.  From  spies  of  thine  to  spy 
my  nakedness 
in  my  poor  North  ! 

Harold.  There  is  a  movement  there, 
A  blind  one — nothing  yet. 

Tostig.  Crush  it  at  once 

With  all  the  power  I  have  ! — I  must — 

I  will  !— 
Crush    it    half-born !     Fool  still  ?  or 

wisdom  there, 
My  wise  head-shaking  Harold  ? 

Harold.  Make  not  thou 

The     nothing    something.      Wisdom 

whtn  in  power, 

Aw  J  wisest,  should  not  frown  as  Power, 

but  smile  \must 

As  kindness,  watching  all,  till  the  true 

Shall  make  her  strike  as  Power :  but 

when  to  strike — 
O   Tostig,   O  dear    brother— If  they 

prance, 
Reign  in,  not  lash  them,  lest  they  rear 

and  run 
And  break  both  neck  and  axle. 

Tostig.  Go  id  again  ! 

Good    counsel    tho'    scarce    needed. 

Pour  not  water 
In  the  full  vessel  running  out  at  top 
To  swamp  the  house. 

Leofwin.      Nor  thou  be  a  wild  thing 
Out  of  the  waste,  to  turn  and  bite  the 

hand 
Would  help  thee  from  the  trap. 

Tostig.  Thou  playest  in  tune. 

Leofwin.  To  the   deaf  adder  thee, 
that  will  not  dance 
However  wisely  charm'd. 

Tostig.  No  more,  no  more  I 

Gurth.  I  likewise    cry  "no  more." 
Unwholesome  talk 
For  Godwin's  house  I     Leofwin,  thou 

hast  a  tongue ! 
Tostig,  thou   lookst  as  thou  wouldst 

spring  upon  him. 
St.  Olaf,  not  while  I  am  by  !     Come, 

come, 
Join    hands,    let    brethren    dwell    in 
unity ; 


Let  kith  and  kin  stand  close   as  oui 

shield-wall, 
Who  breaks  us  then  ?    I  say,  thou  hast 

a  tongue. 
And    Tostig  is    not   stout    enough  to 

bear  it. 
Vex  him  not,  Leofwin. 

Tostig.  No,  I  am  not  vext, — 

Altho'  ye  seek  to  vex  me,  one  and  all- 
I  have  to  make  report  of  my  good  eart 

dom 
To  the  good  kin^  who  gave  it — not  to 

you— 
Not  any  of  you. — I  am  not  vext  at  all. 
Harold.  The  king  ?  the  king  is  ever 

at  his  prayers ; 
In  all  that  handles  matter  of  the  state 
I  am  the  king. 

Tostig.         That  shalt  thou  never  be 
If  I  can  thwart  thee. 
Harold.  Brother,  brother ! 

Tostig.  Away! 

\^Exit  Tostig. 
Queen.  Spite  of    this  grisly  star  ye 

three  must  gall 
Poor  Tostig. 
Leofwin.    Tostig,  sister,  galls  him- 
self, [nose 
He  cannot  smell  a  rose  but  pricks  his 
Against  the  thorn,   and  rails  against 

the  rose. 
Queen.  I  am  the  only  rose  of  all  the 

stock 
That  never  thorn'd  him ;  Edward  loves 

him,  so 
Ye  hate  him.     Harold  always   hatea 

him. 
Why — how  they  fought  when  boys-— 

and.  Holy  Mary ! 
How  Harold  used  to  beat  him  ! 

Harold.  Why,  boys  will  fight. 

Leofwin  would  often  fight  me,  and  I 

beat  him. 
Even  old  Gurth  would  fight.     I  had 

much  ado 
To  hold  mine  own  against  old  Gurth. 

Old  Gurth, 
We  fought  like  great  states  for  grave 

cause  ;  but  Tostig — 
On  a  sudden — at  a  something — for  a 

nothing — 


HAROLD. 


62  V 


The  boy  would  fist  me  hard,  and  when 

we  fought 
I  conquer'd,  and  he  loved  me  none  the 

less, 
Till  thou  wouldst  get  him  all  apart, 

and  tell  him 
That  where  he  was  but  worsted,  he 

was  wrong'd. 
Ah!  thou  hast  taught  the  king  to  spoil 

him  too ; 
Now   the    spoilt    child    sways    both. 

Take  heed,  take  heed  ; 
Thou  art  the  Queen  ;  ye  are  boy  and 

girl  no  more  : 
Side  not  with  Tostig  in  any  violence, 
Lest  thou  be  sideways  guilty  of  the 
violence. 
Queen.  Come  fall  not  foul  on    me. 

I  leave  thee,  brother. 
Harold.  Nay,  my  good  sister — 
{^Exeunt       Queen,        Harold, 
GuRTH,  and  Leofwin. 
Aldwyth.  Gamel,  son  of  Orm, 

What  thinkest  thou  this  means  "i 

\Pointing  to  the  comet. 
Game!.  War,  my  dear  lady. 

War,  waste,  plague,  famine,  all  malig- 
nities. 
Aldwyth.  It  means  the  fall  of  Tostig 

from  his  earldom. 
Gamel.  That  were  too  small  a  matter 

for  a  comet ! 
Aldwyth.  It  means  the  lifting  of  the 

house  of  Alfgar. 
Gamel.  Too  small  !  a  comet  would 

not  show  for  that ! 
Aldwyth.  Not  small  for  thee,  if  thou 

canst  compass  it. 
Gamel.  Thy  love  ? 

Aldwyth.  As  much  as   I   can   give 
thee,  man ; 
This  Tostig  is,  or  like  to  be,  a  tyrant ; 
Stir  up  thy  people  :  oust  him! 

Gamel.  And  thy  love  ? 

Aldwyth.  As    much    as  thou  canst 

bear. 
Gamel.  I  can  bear  all, 

And  not  be  giddy. 
Aldwyth.  No  more  now:  to-morrow. 


SCENE  II.— IN  THE  GARDEN. 
THE  KING'S  HOUSE  NEAR 
LONDON.     SUNSET. 

Edith.  Mad  for  thy  mate,  passionate 
nightingale.  .  .  . 

I  love  thee  for  it — ay,  but  stay  a  ma 
ment : 

He  can  but  stay  a  moment :  he  is  go- 
ing. 

I  fain  would  hear  him  coming ! .  .  . 
near  me  .  .  .  near, 

Somewhere — to  draw  him  nearer  with 
a  charm 

Like  thine  to  thine. 

{Singing.) 

Love  is  come  with  a  song  and  a  smile, 
Welcome  Love  with  a  smile  and  a  song  : 
Love  can  stay  but  a  little  while. 
Why  cannot  he  stay  ?   They  call  him  away : 
Ye  do  him  wrong,  ye  do  him  wrong  ; 
Love  will  stay  for  a  whole  life  long. 

Enter  Harold. 

Harold.  The  nightingales  at  Haver- 
ing-in-the-bower 
Sang  out  their  loves  so  loud,  that  Ed- 
ward's prayers 
Were  deafen'd',  and  he  pray'd    them 

dumb,  and  thus 
I  dumb  thee,  too,  my  wingless  nightin- 
gale !  {Kissiitg  her. 
Edith.  Thou  art  my  music !  Would 
their  wings  were  mine 
To  follow  thee   to  Flanders!     Must 
thou  go  ? 
Harold.  Not  must,   but  will.     It  is 

but  for  one  moon. 
Edith.  Leaving  so  many  foes  in  Ed- 
ward's hall 
To  league  against  thy  weal.    The  Lady 

Aldwyth 
Was  here  to-day,  and  when  she  touch'd 

on  thee, 
She  stammer'd  in  her  hate ;  I  am  sure 

she  hates  thee. 
Pants  for  thy  blood. 
Harold.    Well,   I   have    given    het 
cause — 
I  fear  no  woman. 
Edith.  Hate  not  one  who  felt 


622 


HAROLD. 


Some  pity  for  thy  hater !    I  am  sure 
Her  morning  wanted  sunlight,  she  so 

praised 
The  convent  and  lone  life — within  the 

pale — 
Beyond  the  passion.     Nay — she   held 

with  Edward, 
At  least  methought  she  held  with  holy 

Edward, 
That  marriage  was  half  sin. 

Harold.  A  lesson  worth 

Finger  and  thumb — thus  [snaps  hisjin- 

gers).     And  my  answer  to  it — 
See  here — an  interwoven  H  and  E  ! 
Take   thou  this  ring;  I  will  demand 

his  ward 
From   Edward  when   I   come    again. 

Ay,  would  she .' 
She   to  shut   up  my  blossom   in  the 

dark  J  [arms. 

Thou  art  my  nun,  thy  cloister  in  mine 

Edith    [taking  the  ring).     Yea,  but 

Earl  Tostig — 
Harold.  That's  a  truer  fenr ! 

For  if  the  North  take  fire,  I  should  i^e 

back ; 
I  shall  be,  soon  enough. 

Edith.  Ay,  but  last  night 

An  evil   dream  that  ever  came  and 

went — 
Harold   A  gnat  that  vext  thy  pillow ! 

Had  I  been  by 
I  would   have  spoil'd  his   horn.     My 

girl,  what  was  it  "i 
Edith.  Oh !  that  thou  wert  not  go- 
ing! 
For  so  methought  it  was  our  marriage- 
morn, 
And  while  we  stood  together,  a  dead 

man 
Rose  from  behind  the  altar,  tore  away 
My  marriage  ring,  and  rent  my  bridal 

veil ; 
And  then  I  twn'd,  and  saw  the  church 

all  fill'd 
With   dead   men   upright    from   their 

graves,  and  all 
The  dead  men  made  at  thee  to  murder 

thee, 
But  thou  didst  back  thyself  against  a 

pillar, 


And  strike  among  them  with  thy  bat 

tle-axe — 
There,  what  a  dream  ! 
Harold.    Well,    well — a  dream — no 

more ! 
Edith.    Did   not   Heaven  speak   to 

men  in  dreams  of  old  ? 
Harold.    Ay — well — of  old.      I   tell 

thee  what,  my  child  ; 
Thou  hast  misread  this  merry  dream 

of  thine, 
Taken  the  rifted  pillars  of  the  wood 
For    smooth    stone    columns    of   the 

sanctuary. 
The  shadows  of  a  hundred  fat  dead 

deer 
For  dead  men's  ghosts.     True,   that 

the  battle-axe 
Was  out  of  place ;  it  should  have  been 
j  the  bow. — 

i  Come,  thou  shalt  dream  no  more  such 

dreams  ;  I  swear  it, 
By  mine  own  eyes — and  these  two  sap- 
phires— these  [all 
Twin  rubies,  that  are  amulets  against 
The  kisses  of  all  kind  of  womankind 
In  Flanders,  till  the  sea  shall  roll  me 

back 
To  tumble  at  thy  feet. 

Edith.       That  would  but  shame  me^ 
Rather  than  make  me  vain.     The  sea 

may  roll 
Sand,  shingle,  shore-weed,  not  the  liv- 
ing rock 
Which  guards  the  land. 

Harold.  Except  it  be  a  soft  one, 

And  undereaten  to  the  fall.    Mine  am- 
ulet. .  .  . 
This  last  .  .  .  upon  thine  eyelids,  to 

shut  in 
A  happier  dream.     Sleep,  sleep,  and 

thou  shalt  see 
My  greyhounds  fleeting  like  a  beam  of 

light, 
And  hear  my  peregrine  and  her  bells 

in  heaven ; 
And   other  bells   on   earth,  which  yet 

are  heaven's ; 
Guess  what  they  iDe. 

Edith.  He  cannot  guess  who  kauwa 
Farewell,  my  king. 


HAKCTD 


6:^3 


1 1        Harold.    Not  yet,   but    then  —  my 
Queen.  {Exeunt. 

Enter  AUDWYin  from  the  thicket. 

Aldwyth.  The  kiss  that  charms  thine 

eyelids  into  sleep, 
Will  hold  mine  waking.     Hate  him.? 

I  could  love  him 
More,  tenfold,  than  this  fearful   child 

can  do  ; 
Griffyth   I   hated  :  why  not   hate   the 

foe 
Of   England?     Griffyth  when   I   saw 

him  flee. 
Chased  deer-like  up  his  mountains,  all 

the  blood 
That    should    have    only  pulsed  for 

Griffyth,  beat  ^ 

For  his  pursuer.     I  love  him  or  think 

I  love  him. 
If  he   were   King  of  England,  I  his 

queen, 
1  might  be  sure  of  it.     Nay,  I  do  love 

him. — 
She  must  be  cloister'd  somehow,  lest 

the  king 
Should  yield  his  ward  to  Harold's  will. 

What  harm  ? 
She  hath  but  blood  enough  to  live,  not 

love. — 
When  Harold  goes  and  Tostig,  shall  I 

play 
The   craftier  Tostig  with  him.?   fawn 

upon  him  ? 
Chime  in  with  all  ?    "  O  thou  more 

saint  than  king  1  " 
And  that    were    true    enough.      "O 

blessed  relics !  " 
"  O   Holy  Peter  ! "    If  he  found  me 

thus, 
Harold  might  hate  me;  he  is  broad 

and  honest, 
Breathing   an   easy  gladness  .  .  .  not 

like  Aldwyth  .  .  . 
For  which  I  strangely  love  him.  Should 

not  England 
Love   Aldwyth,  if  she  stay  the  feuds 

that  part 
The  sons  of  Godwin  from  the  sons  of 

Alfgar 


By  such  a  marrying  ?     Courage,  noble 

Aldwyth  ! 
Let  all  thy  people  bless  thee  ! 

Our  wild  Tostig, 
Edward  hath  made  him  Earl  :  he  would 

be  king  : — 
The  dog  that  snapt  the  shadow,  dropt 

the  bone. — 
I  trust  he   may  do  well,  this  Gunr.ei, 

whom 
I  play  upon,  that  he  may  play  the  not  3 
Whereat  the  dog  shall  howl  and  run, 

and  Harold 
Hear  the  king's  music,  all   alone  mih 

him. 
Pronounced  his  heir  of  England. 
I  see  the  goal  and  half  the  way  to  it."- 
Peace-lover  is  our  Harold  for  the  sak^- 
Of  England's  wholeness — so — to  shake' 

the  North 
With  earthquake  and  disruption — some 

division — 
Then  fling  mine  own  fair  person  in  th'* 

gap 
A  sacrifice  to  Harold,  a  peace-offer- 
ing, [both 
A  scape-goat  marriage — all  the  sins  of 
The  houses  on  mine  head — then  a  fai*^ 

life 
And  bless  the  Queen  of  England. 
Morcar    {coming  from   the    thicket). 

Art  thou  assured 
By  this,  that  Harold  loves  but  Edith  ? 
Aldwyth.  Morcar  I 

Why    creepst  thou   like    a  timorous 

beast  of  prey 
Out  of  the  bush  by  night .? 

Morcar.  I  follow'd  thee. 

Aldwyth.  Follow  my  lead,  and  I  will 

make  thee  earl. 
Morcar.  What  lead  then  ? 
Aldwyth.  Thou  shalt  flash  it  secretly 
Among  the  good  Northumbrian  folk, 

that  I— 
That  Harold  loves  me — yea,  and  pres" 

ently 
That  I  and  Harold  are  betroth'd — and 

last- 
Perchance    that   Harold  wrongs  mt? 

tho'  I  would  not 
That  it  should  come  to  that. 


624 


HAROLD. 


Morcar.  I  will  both  flash 

And  thunder  for  thee. 

Aldwyih.  I  said  "  secretly ;  " 

It  is  the  flash  that  murders,  the  poor 

thunder 
Never  harm'd  head, 

Morcar.    But   thunder     may     bring 
down 
That  which  the  flash  hath  stricken. 

Aldwyth.  Down  with  Tostig  ! 

That  first  of  all. — And  when  doth  Har- 
old go  ? 
Morcar.    To-morrow — first  to   Bos- 
ham,  then  to  Flanders. 
Aldwyth.  Not  to  come  back  till  Tos- 
tig shall  have  shown 
And  redden'd  with  his  people's  blood 

the  teeth 
That  shall  be  broken  by  us— yea,  and 

thou 
Chair'd  in  his  place.     Good-night,  and 

dream  thyself 
Their  chosen  Earl.     \Exit  Aldwyth. 
Morcar.        Earl  first,  and  after  that 
Who  knows  I  may  not  dream  myself 
their  King ! 


ACT  11. 

SCENE   I.  — SEA-SHORE.     PON- 

THIEU.     NIGHT. 

Harold  and  his  meti,  wrecked. 

Harold.  Friends,  in  that  last  inhos- 
pitable plunge 

Our  boat  hath  burst  her  ribs ;  but  ours 
arc  whole ; 

I  have  but  bark'd  my  hands. 

Attendant.  I  dug  mine  into 

My  old  fast  friend  the  shore,  and  cling- 
ing thus 

Felt  the  remorseless  outdraught  of  the 
deep 

Haul  like  a  great  strong  fellow  at  my 
legs, 

And  then  I  rose  and  ran.     The  blast 
that  came 

So  suddenly  hath  ralluii  as  suddenly — 


Put  thou  the   comet  and  this  blast  to 

gether — 
Harold.  Put  thou  thyself  and  mothesi 

wit  together. 
Be  not  a  fool ! 

Eiiter  Fishermen  with  torches,  Har« 
OlAi  going  up  to  one  of  them,  RoLF. 

Wicked  sea-will-o'-the-wis]- ! 
Wolf  of  the  shore  !  dog,  with  thy  lyii  g 

lights 
Thou  hast  betray'd  us  on  these  rocks 
of  thine  ! 
Rolf.  Ay,  but  thou  liest  as  loud  as 
the  black  herring-pond  behind  thee. 
We  be  fishermen :  I  came  to  see  after 
my  nets. 

Harold.     To    drag    us    into    thera- 
Fishermen  .''  devils  ! 
Who,  while  ye  fish  for  men  with  your 

false  fires. 
Let  the  great  Devil  fish  for  your  own 
souls. 
Rolf    Nay   then,    we   be    liker   the 
blessed  Apostles ;  they  were  fishers  of 
men.  Father  Jean  says. 
Harold.  I  had  liefer  that  the  fish  had 
swallowed  me. 
Like   Jonah,   than   have  known  there 

were  such  devils. 
What's  to  be  done  ? 

\To  his  men — goes  apart  with  them. 
Fisherman.  Rolf,  what  fish  did  swal- 
low Jonah .? 
Rolf  A  whale ! 

Fisherman.  Then  a  whale  to  a  whelk 
we  have  swallowed  the  King  of  Eng- 
land. I  saw  him  over  there.  Look 
thee,  Rolf,  when  I  was  down  in  the 
fever,  she  was  down  with  the  hunger, 
and  thou  didst  stand  by  her  and  give 
her  thy  crabs,  and  set  her  up  again, 
till  now,  by  the  patient  Saints,  she's  as 
crabb'd  as  ever. 

Rolf  And  I'll  give  her  my  crabs 
again,  when  thou  art  down  again. 

Fisherman.  I  thank  thee,  Rolf.  Run 
thou  to  Count  Guy ;  he  is  hard  at 
hand.  Tell  him  what  hath  crept  into 
our  creel,  and  he  will  fee  thee  as  freely 
as  he  will  wrench  this  outlander's  raiv 


HAROLD. 


b2S 


som  out  of  him — and  why  not?  for 
what  right  had  he  to  get  himself 
wreck'd  on  another  man's  land  ? 

Rolf.  Thou  art  the  human-hearted- 
est,  Christian-charitiest  of  all  crab- 
catchers  !     Share  and  share  alike  ! 

lExit. 

Harold  [to  Fisherman).  Fellow, 
dost  thou  catch  crabs  ? 

Fisherman.  As  few  as  I  may  in  a 
wind,  and  less  than  I  would  in  a  calm. 
Ay! 

Harold.  I  have  a  mind  that  thou 
shalt  catch  no  more. 

Fisherman.   How  ? 

Harold.  I  have  a  mind  to  brain  thee 
with  mine  axe. 

Fisherman.  Ay,  do,  do,  and  our 
great  Count-crab  will  make  his  nippers 
meet  in  thine  heart ;  he'll  sweat  it  out 
of  thee,  he'll  sweat  it  out  of  thee. 
Look,  he's  here  !  He'll  speak  for 
himself  1  Hold  thine  own,  if  thou 
canst ! 

Enter  GuY,  CoUNT  of  Ponthieu. 

Harold.  Guy,  Count  of  Ponthieu  ! 
Gjty.  Harold,  Earl  of  Wessex ! 

Harold.  Thy  villains  with  their  lying 

lights  have  wreck'd  us  ! 

Gtcy.  Art  thou  not  Earl  of  Wessex  ? 

Harold.  In  mine  earldom 

A  man  may  hang  gold  bracelets  on  a 

bush,  [back 

And  leave  them  for  a  year,  and  coming 

Find  them  again. 

Guy.  Thou  art  a  mighty  man 

In  thine  own  earldom ! 

Harold.  Were  such  murderous  liars 
In   Wessex — if   I   caught   them,    they 

should  hang 
Cliff-gibbeted  for  sea-marks  ;  our  sea- 
mew 
Winging  their  only  wail  ! 

Giiy.  Ay,  but  my  men 

Hold  that  the  shipwreckt  are  accursed 

of  God  ;— 
What  hinders  me  to  hold  with  mine 
own  men  ? 
Harold.  The  Christian  manhood  of 
the  man  who  reigns  ! 


Guy.  Ay,  rave  thy  worst,  but  in  oui 
oubliettes 
Thou  shalt  or  rot   or  ransom.     Hale 
him  hence ! 

\To  one  of  his  Attendants. 
Fly  thou  to  William;  tell  him  we  have 
Harold. 

SCENE  II.— BAYEUX   PALACE. 

Count  William  aiW  William  Ma- 
let. 
William.  We  hold  our  Saxon  wood- 
cock in  the  springe, 
But  he  begins  to  flutter.     As  I  think 
He  was  thine  host  in  England  when  I 

went 
To  visit  Edward. 

Malet.  Yea,  and  there,  my  lord, 

To  make  allowance  for  their  rougher 

fashions, 
I  found  him  all  a  noble  host  should 

be. 
Williaju.  Thou  art  his  friend  :  thou 

knowest  my  claim  on  England 
Thro'   Edward's    promise;    we    have 

him  in  the  toils. 
And  it  were  well,  if  thou  shouldst  let 

him  feel, 
H.OW  dense  a  fold  of  danger  nets  him 

round, 
So  that  he  bristle  himself  against  my 

will. 
Malet.  What  would  I  do,  my  lord,  if 

I  were  you .'' 
William.  What  wouldst  thou  do  ? 
Malet.  My  lord,  he  is  thy  guest. 

William.   Nay,   by   the   splendor  of 

God,  no  guest  of  mine. 
He  came  not  to  see  me,  had  passed  me 

by 
To  hunt  and  hawk  elsewhere,  save  for 

the  fate 
Which    hunted  him   when    that    un- 

Saxon  blast. 
And  bolts  of  thunder  moulded  in  high 

heaven 
To  serve  the  Norman  purpose.,  drave 

and  crack'd 
His  boat   on   Ponthieu  beach;  where 

our  friend  Guy 


626 


HAROLD, 


Had  wrung  his  ransom  from  him  by 
the  rack, 

But    that   I   stept    between   and   pur- 
chased him, 

Translating  his  captivity  from  Guy 

To  mine  own  hearth  at  Bayeux,  where 
he  sits 

My  ransom'd  prisoner. 

Malet.  Well,  if  not  with  gold, 

With  golden  deeds   and  iron   strokes 
that  brought 

Thy  war  with  Brittany  to  a  goodlier 
close 

Than  else  had  been,  he  paid  his  ran- 
som back. 
William.    So  that   henceforth   they 
are  not  like  to  league 

With  Harold  against  me. 

Malet.  A  marvel,  how 

He  from  the  liquid  sands  of  Coesnon 

Haled   thy    shore-swallow'd,    armor'd 
Normans  up 

To  fight  for  thee  again ! 

William.  ,  Perchance  against 

Their  saver,  save  thou  save  him  from 
himself. 
Malet.  But  I  should  let  him  home 

again,  my  lord. 
William.    Simple !    Is  i  fly   the   bird 
within  the  hand. 

To   catch   the   bird   again   within  the 
bush  ! 

No. 

Smooth  thou  my  way,  before  he  clash 
with  me ; 

I  want  his  voice  in   England  for  the 
crown, 

I   want  thy  voice  with  him   to  bring 
him  round ; 

And  being  brave  he  must  be  subtly 
cow'd, 

And  being  truthful  wrought  upon  to 
swear 

Vows  that  he  dare  not  break.     Eng- 
land our  own 

Thro'  Harold's  help,  he  shall  be  my 
dear  friend 

As   well  as   thine,   and    thou    thyself 
shalt  have 

Large  lordship  there  of  lands  and  ter- 
ritory. 


Malet   I  knew  thy  purpose ;  he  and 
Wulfnoth  never 
Have    met,   except  in    public ;    shall 

they  meet 
In  private  ?     I  have  often  talk'd  with 

Wulfnoth, 
And  stuff'd   the   boy  with   fears  that 

these  may  act 
On  Harold  when  they  meet. 

William.  Then  let  them  meet ! 

Malet.  I   can   but   love   this   noble, 

honest  Harold. 
William.  Love  him !  why  not  ?  thine 
is  a  loving  office. 
I  have  commission'd  thee  to  save  the 

man ; 
Help    the    good    ship,  showing    the 

sunken  rock, 
Or  he  is  wreckt  forever. 

Eiiter  William  Rufus. 
William  Rufiis.  Father. 
William.  Well,  boy. 

William   Riifus.    They   have   taken 
away  the  toy  thou  gavest  nie. 
The  Norman  knight. 

William.  Why,  boy.^ 

William  Rufus.         Because  I  broke 
The   horse's  leg — it  was  mine  own  to 

break ; 
I  like  to  have  my  toys,  and  break  them 
too. 
William.  Well,  thou  shalt  have  an- 
other Norman  knight ! 
William  Rufus.   And  may   I  break 

his  legs  ? 
William.  Yea, — get  thee  gone ! 

William  Rufus.  I'll  tell  them  I  have 
had  my  way  with  thee.  S^Exit. 

Malet.  I  never  knew  thee  check  thy 
will  for  aught 
Save   for   the    prattling   of  thy   little 
ones. 
William.     Who   shall   be  kings    of 
England.     I  am  heir 
Of   England  by  the   promise    of  her 
king. 
Malet.  But  there  the  great  Assembly 
choose  their  king. 
The  choice  of  England  is  the  voice  of 
England. 


HAROLD. 


627 


William.  I  will  be  king  of  England 
by  the  laws, 
The  choice,  and  voice  of  England. 
Malet.  Can  that  be  ? 

William.  The  voice  of  any  people  is 
the  sword 
That  guards  them,  or  the  sword  that 

beats  them  down. 
Here  comes  the  would-be  what  I  will 

be  .  .  .  kinglike  .  .  . 
Tho'  scarce  at  ease;    for,   save  our 

meshes  break, 
More  kinglike  he  than  like  to  prove  a 
king. 

Enter  HAROLD,  musing,  with  his  eyes 
on  the  ground. 

He  sees  me  not — and  yet  he  dreams  of 

me. 
Earl,  wilt  thou  fly  my  falcons  this  fair 

day? 
They   are   of  the  best,  strong-wing'd 

against  the  wind. 
Harold  {looking  up  suddenly,  having 

caught  but  the  last  word).      Which 

way  does  it  blow  ? 
Willmm.    Blowing  for  England,  ha? 
Not  yet.     Thou  hast    not  learnt   thy 

quarters  here. 
The  winds  so  cross  and  jostle  among 

these  towers. 
Harold.  Count  of  the  Normans,  thou 

hast  ransom'd  us, 
Maintain'd,  and  entertain'd  us  royally  ! 
William.    And     thou    for   us    hast 

fought  as  loyally, 
Which  binds    us  friendship-fast  for- 
ever ! 
Harold.     Good ! 
But  lest  we  turn  the  scale  of  courtesy 
By  too  much  pressure  on  it,  I  would 

fain, 
Since  thou  hast  promised  Wulfnoth 

home  with  us. 
Be  home  again  with  Wulfnoth. 

William.  Stay— as  yet 

Thou  hast  but  seen  how  Norman  hands 

can  strike, 
But  walk'd  our  Norman  field,  scarce 

touch'd  or  tasted 
The  splendors  of  our  Court. 


Harold.  I  am  in  no  mood; 

I  should  be  as  the  shadow  of  a  cloud 

Crossing  your  light. 

William.      Nay,  rest  a  week  or  two. 

And  we  will  fill   thee  full  of  Norman 
sun. 

And    send    thee    back    among    thii.e 
island  mists 

With  laughter. 
Harold.    Count,   I   thank  thee,   bul 
had  rather 

Breathe   the   free   wind  from  off  oui' 
Saxon  downs, 

Tho'  charged  with  all  the  wet  of  all 
the  west. 
William.  Why  if  thou  wilt,  so  let  it 
be — thou  shalt. 

That  were  a  graceless  hospitality 

To  chain  the    free  guest  to  the  ban- 
quet-board ; 

To-morrow  we  will  ride  with  thee  to 
Harfleur, 

And  see  thee  shipt,  and  pray  in  thy  be- 
half 

For   happier    homeward   winds    than 
that  which  crack'd 

Thy  bark  at  Ponthieu, — yet  to  us,  in 
faith, 

A    happy   one — ^whereby  we   came  to 
know 

Thy  valor  and  thy  value,  noble  earl. 

Ay,  and   perchance   a  happy  one   for 
thee, 

Provided — I  will  go  with  thee  to-mor- 
row— 

Nay — but   there  be    conditions,   easy 
ones. 

So   thou,  fair  friend,  will  take   them 
easily. 

Enter  Page. 
Page.  My  lord,  there  is  a  post  from 
over  seas 
With  news  for  thee.  {Exit  Page. 

William.    Come,  Malet,  let  us  hear  ! 
{Exeunt   Count    William  and 
Malet. 
Harold.   Conditions?     What   condi- 
tions ?     Pay  him  back 
His    ransom?     "easy"  — that     were 
easy — nay— 


628 


HAROLD. 


No  money-lover  he  !     What  said  the 

King  ? 
"  I  pray  you  do  not  go  to  Normandy." 
And  fate  hath  blown  me  hither,  bound 

me  too 
"With  bitter  obligation  to  the  Count — 
Have  I  not  fought  it  out  ?     what  did 

he  mean  ? 
There  lodged  a  gleaming  grimness  in 

his  eyes, 
Gave  his   shorn   smile   the   lie.     The 

walls  oppress  me, 
And  yon  huge  keep  that  hinders  half 

the  heaven. 
Free  air !  free  field ! 

\M(n)es  to   go    out.      A    Man-at- 

AKMS  follows  him. 

Harold  {to  the  Man-at-arms).      I 

need  thee  not.     Why  dost  thou 

follow  me  .-* 

Man-at-arms.    I   have   the   Count's 

commands  to  follow  thee. 
Harold.  What  then  "i    Am  I  in  dan- 
ger in  this  court .? 
Man-at-arms.  I  cannot  tell.     I  have 

the  Count's  commands. 
Harold.  Stand  out  of  earshot  then, 
and  keep  me  still 
In  eyeshot. 

Man-at-arms.  Yea,  lord  Harold. 

[  Withdraws. 

Harold.  And  arm'd  men 

Ever  keep  watch  beside  my  chamber 

door, 
And  if  I  walk  within  the  lonely  wood, 
There  is  an  arm'd  man  ever  glides  be* 
hind  ; 

Enter  Malet. 

Why  am  I  follow'd,  haunted,  harass'd, 

watch' d  .? 
See  yonder ! 

[Pointing  to  the  Man-AT-ARMS. 
Malet.  'Tis   the  good   Count's  care 
for  thee  ! 
The  Normans  love  thee  not,  nor  thou 

the  Normans, 
Or — so  they  deem. 

Harold.     But  wherefore  is  the  wind, 
Which   way    soever    the    vane-arrow 
swing, 


Not  ever  fair  for  England  ?     Wh-,'  but 

now 
He    said     (thou    heardst  him)    that  I 

must  not  hence 
Save  on  conditions. 

Malet.  So  in  truth  he  said. 

Harold.  Malet,  thy  mother  was  an 
Englishwoman  j 
There   somewhere    beats    an   English 
pulse  in  thee  ! 
Alalet.  Well — for  my  mother's   sake 
I  love  your  England, 
But  for  my  father  I  love  Normandy. 
Harold.  Speak  for  thy  mother's  sake, 

and  tell  me  true. 
Malet.  Then  for  my  mother's  sake, 
and  England's  sake 
That  suffers  in  the  daily  want  of  thee, 
Obey  the  Count's  conditions,  my  good 
friend. 
Harold.  How,  Malet,  if  they  be  not 

honorable  ! 
Malet.  Seem  to  obey  them. 
Hai'old.  Better  die  than  lie  ! 

Malet.    Choose     therefore    whether 
thou  wilt  have  thy  conscience 
White  as  a  maiden's  hand,  or  whether 

England 
Be  shatter'd  into  fragments. 
Harold.  News  from  England } 

Malet.    Morcar    and     Edwin    have 
stirr'd  up  the  Thanes 
Against  thy  brother  Tostig's   govern- 
ance ;  [storm. 
And  all  the  North  of  Humber  is  one 
Harold.  I  should  be  there,  Malet,  I 

should  be  there ! 
Malet.  And  Tostig  in  his  own  hall 
on  suspicion 
Hath  massacred  the  Thane  that  was 

his  guest, 
Gamel,  the  son  of  Orm  :  and  there  be 

more 
As  villanously  slain. 

Harold.  The  wolf  !  the  beast  I 

111  news  for  guests,  ha,  Malet  1    More  ? 

What  more  ? 
What  do  they  say  ?  did  Edward  knovi 
of  this  ? 
Malet.  They  say,  his  wife  was  know- 
ing and  abetting. 


HAROLD. 


629 


Harold.    They    say,   his    wife ! — To 
marry  and  have  no  husband 

Makes   the   wife    fool.      My    God,    I 
should  be  there. 

I'll  hack  my  way  to  the  sea, 
Malet.  Thou  canst  not,  Harold ; 

Our  Duke  is  all  between  thee  and  the 
sea, 

Our  Duke  is  all  about  thee  like  a  God  ; 

All  passes  block'd.     Obey,  him,  speak 
him  fair. 

For  he  is  only  debonair  to  those 

That  follow  where  he  leads,  but  stark 
as  death 

To  those  that  cross  him. — Look  thou, 
here  is  Wulfnoth ! 

I  leave  thee  to  thy  talk  with  him  alone ; 

How  wan,  poor  lad  !  how  sick  and  sad 
for  home  !  \^Exit  Malet. 

Harold  {muttering).     Go  not  to  Nor- 
mandy— go  not  to  Normandy  I 

Enter  Wulfnoth. 

Poor  brother  !  still  a  hostage  ! 

Wulfnoth.  Yea,  and  I 

Shall   see   the  dewy  kiss  of  dawn  no 

more 
Make  blush  the  maiden-white  of  our 

tali  cliffs. 
Nor  mark  the  sea-bird  rouse   himself 

and  hover 
Above  the  windy  ripple,  and  fill  the 

sky 
With   free   sea-laughter — never — save 

indeed 
Thou  canst  make  yield  this  iron-mooded 

Duke 
To  let  me  go. 

Harold.       Why,  brother,  so  he  will ; 
But  on  cond'tions.     Canst  thou  guess 

at  them  ? 
Wulfnoth.    Draw  nearer, — I  was  in 

the  corridor, 
I  saw  him  coming  with  his  brother  Odo 
The  Bayeux  bishop,  and  I  hid  myself. 
Harold.  They  did  thee  wrong  who 

made  thee  hostage  ;  thou 
Wast  ever  fearful. 

Widfnoth.  And  he  spoke — I    heard 

him — 
"  This  Harold  is  not  of  the  royal  blood, 


Can  have  no  right  to  the   crown,"  and 

Odo  said, 
"  Thine    is   the   right,   for    thine    the 

might ;  he  is  here. 
And  yonder  is  thy  keep." 

Harold.  No,  Wulfnoth,  na 

Wulfioth.  And  William  laugh'd  and 
swore  that  might  was  1  ight, 
Far  as  he  knew  in  this  poor  world  of 

ours — 
"Marry,  the  Saints  must  go  along  with 

us. 
And,  brother,  we  will  find  a  way,"  said 

he — 
Yea,  yea,  he  would  be  king  of  England. 
Harold.  Never ! 

Wulfnoth.  Yea,   but  thou  must  not 

this  way  answer  hint. 
Harold.  Is  it  not  better  still  to  speak 

the  truth .? 
Wulfnoth.   Not   here,   or   thou   wilt 
never  hence,  nor  I ; 
For  in  the  racing  towards  this  golden 

goal 
He  turns  not  right  or  left,  but  tramples 

flat 
Whatever    thwarts    him  :    hast    thou 

never  heard 
His  savagery  at  Alenpon — the  town 
Hung  out  raw  hides  along  their  walls, 

and  cried, 
"  Work  for  the  tanner." 

Harold.  That  had  anger'd  me, 

Had  I  been  William. 

Wulfnoth.  Nay,  but  he  had  prisoners, 
He  tore   their  eyes  out,  sliced   their 

hands  away, 
And  flung  them    streaming  o'er   the 

battlements 
Upon  the  heads  of  those  who  walk'd 

within — 
O  speak  him  fair,   Harold,  for  thine 
own  sake. 
Harold.  Your  Welshman  sa^'S,  "The 
Truth  against  the  World," 
Much  more  the  truth  against  myself. 

Wulfnoth.  Thyself? 

But  for  my  sake,  oh  brother  !  oh  !  for 
my  sake  ! 
Harold.  Poor    Wulfnoth!    do    they 
not  entreat  thee  well  i 


630 


HAROLD. 


Wulfnoth.  I  see  the  blackness  of  my 
dungeon  loom 

Across  their  lamps  of  revel,  and  be- 
yond 

The  merriest  murmurs  of  their  banquet 
clank 

The  shackles  that  will  bind  me  to  the 
wall. 
Harold.  Too  fearful  still. 
Wulfnoth.        Oh  no,  no — speak  him 
fair! 

Call  it  to  temporize  ;  and  not  to  lie ; 

Harold,  I  do  not  counsel  thee  to  lie, 

The  man  that  hath  to  foil  a  murderous 
aim 

May,  surely,  play  with  words. 

Harold.  Words  are  the  man. 

Not  ev'n  for  thy  sake,  brother,  would  I 
lie. 
Wulfnoth.    Then  for  thine  Edith  ? 
Harold.  There  thou  prickst  me  deep. 
Widfnoth.  And  for  our  Mother  Eng- 
land .? 
Harold.  Deeper  still. 

Widfnoth.  And  deeper  still  the  deep- 
down  oubliette, 

Down  thirty  feet  below  the   smiling 
day — 

In  blackness — dogs'  food  thrown  upon 
thy  head. 

And  over  thee  the  suns  arise  and  set, 

And  the   lark   sings,   the   sweet  stars 
come  and  go. 

And  men  are  at  their  markets,  in  their 
fields. 

And  woo  their  loves  and  have  forgot- 
ten thee ; 

And  thou  art  upright  in  thy  living  grave, 

Where  there  is  barely  room  to  shift  thy 
side, 

/vnd  all  thine  England  hath  forgotten 
thee ; 

And  he  our  lazy-pious  Norman  King, 

With  all  his  Normans  round  him  once 
again, 

Counts  his  old  beads,  and  hath  forgot- 
ten thee. 
Harold.  Thou  art  of  my  blood,  and 
so  me  thinks,  my  boy. 

Thy  fears  infect  me   beyond  reason. 
Peace ! 


Wulfnoth.  And  then  our  fiery  Tos- 
tig,  while  thy  hands 
Are  palsied  here,  if  his  Northumbrians 

rise 
And   hurl   him   from     them, — I   have 

heard  the  Normans 
Count   upon   this   confusion — may  he 

not  make 
A  league  with  William,  so  to  bring  him 
back  ? 
Harold.  That  lies  within  the  shadow 

of  the  chance. 
Wulfnoth.  And  like  a  river  in  flood 
thro'  a  burst  dam 
Descends   the   ruthless   Norman — our 

good  King 
Kneels  mumbling  some  old  bone — our 

helpless  folk 
Are  wash'd  away,  wailing,  in  their  own 
blood — 
Harold.     Wailing !      not     warring  ? 
Boy,  thou  hast  forgotten 
That  thou  art  English. 

Wulfnoth.         Then      our      modest 
women — 
I  know  the  Norman  license — thine  own 
Edith— 
Harold.    No  more  !     I  will  not  hear 

thee — William  comes. 
Wulfnoth.    I  dare  not  well  be  seen 
in  talk  with  thee. 
Make  thou  not  mention  that  I  spake 
with  thee. 
\Moves  away  to  the  back  of  the  stage. 

Enter  William,  MaleTj^;;/^  Officer. 

Officer.  We  have  the  man  that  rail'd 

against  thy  birth. 
William.  Tear  out  his  tongue. 
Officer.  He  shall  not  rail  again  ; 

He  said  that  he  should  see  confusion 

fall 
On  thee  and  on  thine  house. 

William.  Tear  out  his  eyes, 

And  plunge  him  into  prison. 

Officer.  It  shall  be  done. 

\Exit  Officer. 

William.    Look    not    amazed,    fair 

earl!     Better  leave  undone 

Than  do   by   halves — tongueless    and 

eyeless,  prison'd — 


HAROLD. 


631 


Harold.  Better  methinks  have  slain 

the  man  at  once  ! 
William.  We  have  respect  for  man's 
immortal  soul, 
We  seldom  take  man's  life,  except  in 

war  ; 
It  frights  the  traitor  more  to  maim  and 
blind. 
Harold.  In  mine  own  land  I  should 
have  scorn 'd  the  man, 
Or  lash'd  his  rascal  back,  and  let  him 
go- 
William.  And  let  him  go  ?    To  slan- 
der thee  again !  [day- 
Yet  in  thine  own  land  in  thy  father's 
They    blinded    my    young    kinsman, 

Alfred — ay, 
Some  said  it  was  thy  rather's  deed. 
Harold.  They  lied. 

William.  But  thou  and  he — whom  at 
thy  word,  for  thou 
Art  known  a  speaker  of  the  truth,  I 

free 
From  this  foul  charge — 

Harold.     Nay,  nay,  he  freed  himself 
By  oath  and  compurgation  from  the 

charge. 
The  king,  the  lords,  the  people  clear'd 
him  of  it. 
William.  But  thou  and  he  drove  our 
good  Normans  out 
From  England,  and  this  rankles  in  us 

yet. 
Archbishop  Robert  hardly  scaped  with 
life. 
Harold.  Archbishop   Robert  !    Rob- 
ert the  Archbishop  ! 
Kobert  of  Jumieges,  he  that — 

Malet.  Quiet  !  quiet ! 

Harold.  Count!    if  there  sat  within 
thy  Norman  chair 
A  ruler   all   for   England  —  one  who 

fill'd 
All   offices,  all  bishoprics  with  Eng- 
lish— 
We   could  not  move  from  Dover  to 

the  H  umber 
Saving  thro'  Norman  bishoprics — I  say 
Ye  would  applaud  that  Norman  who 

should  drive 
The  stranger  to  the  fiends  I 


William.  Why,  that  is  reason  I 

Warrior   thou    art,    and   mighty   wise 

withal ! 
Ay,  ay,  but  many  among  our  Norman 

lords 
Hate  thee  for  this,  and  press  upon  me 

— saying 
God  and  the   sea  have  given  thee  to 

our  hands — 
To  plunge  thee   into  life-long  prison 

here  : — 
Yet  I  hold  out  against  them,  as  I  may, 
Yea — would  hold  out,  yea,  tho'  they 

should  revolt — 
For  thou  hast  done  the  battle  in  my 

cause ; 
I  am  thy  fastest  friend  in  Normandy. 
Harold.  I  am  doubly  bound  to  thee 

...  if  this  be  so. 
William.    And   I  would   bind   thea 
more,  and  would  myself 
Be  bounden  to  thee  more. 

Harold.  Then  let  me  hence 

With  Wulfnoth  to  King  Edward. 

William.  So  we  will. 

We  hear  he  hath  not  long  to  live. 
Harold.  It  may  be. 

William.  Why  then  the  heir  of  Eng- 
land, who  is  he  ? 
Hardld.  The  Atheling  is  nearest  to 

the  throne. 
William.     But    sickly,   slight,   half- 
witted and  a  child. 
Will  England  have  him  king  ? 
Harold.  It  may  be,  no. 

William.   And   hath   King   Edward 

not  pronounced  his  heir  .? 
Harold.  Not  that  I  know. 
William.  When  he  was  here  in  Nor- 
mandy, 
He  loved  us  and  we  him,  because  we 

found  him 
A  Norman  of  the  Normans. 

Harold.  So  did  we. 

William.  A    gentle,   gracious,    pure 
and  saintly  man ! 
And  grateful  to  the  hand  that  shielded 

him. 
He  promised  that  if  he  ever  were  king 
In  England,  he  would  give  his  kinglj 


032 


HAROLD. 


To  me  as  his   successor.       Knowest 
thou  this  ? 
Harold.  I  learn  it  now. 
William.   Thou   knowest   I   am  his 
cousin  [frecl  ? 

And  that  my  wife  descends  from  Al- 
Harold.     Ay. 

William.  Who  hath  a  better  claim 
then  to  the  crown 
So  that  ye  will  not  crown  the  Athel- 


mg 


Harold.    None  that  I  know  ...  if 
that  but  hung  upon 
King  Edward's  will. 

William.     Wilt    thou    uphold     my 

claim  ? 
Malet  {aside  to  Harold).  Be  careful 

of  thine  answer,  my  good  friend. 
Wulfnoth  (aside  to  Harold).     Oh  ! 
Harold,  for  my  sake  and  for  thine 
own ! 
Harold.    Ay  ...  if  the   king   have 

not  revoked  his  promise. 
William.  But  hath  he  done  it  then  ? 
Harold.  Not  that  I  know. 

William.  Good,  good,  and  thou  wilt 

help  me  to  the  crown. 
Harold.  Ay  ...  if  the  Witan  will 

consent  to  this. 
Willia?n.    Thou    art  the    mightiest 
voice  in  England,  man, 
Thy  voice  will  lead  the  Witan — shall 
I  have  it  ? 
Wulfnoth  [aside  to  Harold).     Oh! 
Harold,  if  thou  love  thine  Edith, 
ay. 
Harold.  Ay,  if — 

Malet   [aside  to   Harold).      Thine 

"  ifs  "  will  sear  thine  eyes  out — ay. 

William.  I  ask  thee,  wilt  thou  help 

me  to  the  crown  ? 

And  I  will  make  thee  my  great  Earl  of 

Earls, 
Foremost    in    England    and  in  Nor- 
mandy; 
Thou  shalt  be  verily  king — all  but  the 

name — 
For   I    shall    most    sojourn    in    Nor- 
mandy ; 
And  thou  be  my  vice-king  in  England. 
Speak. 


Wulfnoth    [aside  to   Harold).      Ay 
brother — for  the  sake  of  England, 
— ay. 
Harold.  My  lord — 
Malet  [aside  to    Harold).       Take 

heed  now. 
Harold.  Ay. 

William.  I  am  content. 

For   thou   art   truthful,  and  thy  word 

thy  bond. 
To-morrow  will  we  ride  with  thee  to 
Harfleur.  [Exit  William. 

Malet.  Harold,  I  am  thy  friend,  one 
life  with  thee. 
And  even  as  I  should  bless  thee,  sav- 
ing mine, 
I  thank  thee  now  for  having  saved  tliy- 
self.  {Exit  Malet. 

Harold.  For  having  lost  myself  to 
save  myself, 
Said  "ay"  when  I  meant  "no,"  lied 

like  a  lad 
That  dreads  the  pendent  scourge,  said 

"  ay  "  for  "  no  !  " 
Ay !  No  I — he  hath  not  bound  me  by 

an  oath — 
Is  "  ay  "  an  oath  ?   is  "  ay  "  strong  as 

an  oath  ? 
Or  is  it  the  same  sin  to  break  my  word 
As  break  mine  oath .?     He  call'd  my 

word  my  bond! 
He  is  a  liar  who  knows  I  am  a  liar, 
And  makes  believe   that   he   believes 

my  word — 
The    crime    be     on    his    head  —  not 
bounden — no. 

[Suddenly  doors  are  flung  apen,  dis- 
covering in  an  inner  hall  Co\J'iiT 
William  in  his  state  robes,  seated 
upon  his  throne,  between  ttvo 
bishops,  Odo  of  Bayeux  being 
one :  in  the  centre  of  the  hall  ait 
ark  covered  with  cloth  of  gold; 
and  on  either  side  of  it  the  Nor' 
man  barons. 

Enter  a    Jailer    before    William's 
throne. 

William   [to  Jailer).   Knave,   hast 

thou  let  thy  prisoner  escape  } 
Jailer.  Sir  Count, 


HAROLD. 


^ZZ 


He   had  but  one  foot,  he  must  have 

hopt  away  ; 
Yea,  some   familiar  spirit  must   have 
help'd  him. 
VVilliam.  Woe  knave  to  thy  familiar 
and  to  thee ! 
Give  me  thy  keys.    \^They  fall  clashing. 
Nay,  let  them  lie.-    Stand  there   and 
wait  my  will. 

\The  ^ A.\\.Y.Vi  stands  aside. 

William   {to   Harold).    Hast   thou 

such  trustless  jailers  in  thy  North  ? 

Harold.  We  have   few  prisoners  in 

mine  earldom  there, 

So  less  chance  for  false  keepers. 

William.  We  have  heard 

Of  thy  just,  mild,  and   equal  govern- 
ance ; 
Honor  to  thee  !  thou  art  perfect  in  all 

honor  1 

rhy  naked  wurd  thy  bond  I  confirm  it 

now  [age. 

Before    our  gather'd   Norman    baron- 

For  they  will  not  believe  thee — as  I 

believe.  * 

{Descends from  his  throne  ajid stands 
by  the  ark. 
Let  all  men  here  bear  witness  of  our 
bond ! 

{Beckons  to  Harold,  who  advances. 
Enter  Malet  behind  him. 
Lay  thou  thy  hand  upon  this  golden 

pall! 
Behold  the  jewel  of  St.  Pancratius 
Woven  into  the  gold.     Swear  thou  on 
this! 
Harold.     What    should    I     swear  ? 

Why  should  I  swear  on  this  ? 
William  {savagely).    Swear   thou  to 
help  me  to  the  crown  of  England. 
Malet   {whispering    Harold).     My 
friend,  thou  hast  gone  too  far  to 
palter  now. 
Wulfnoth      {whispering     Harold). 
Swear  thou  to-day,  to-morrow  is 
thine  own. 
Harold.  I  swear  to  help  thee  to  the 
crown  of  England  .  .  . 
According  as  King  Edward  promises. 
William.    Thou   must   swear   abso- 
lutely, noble  Earl. 


Alalet  {whispering).  Delay  is  death 

to  thee,  ruin  to  England. 
Wulfnoih  {whispering).  Swear,  dear- 
est brother,  I  beseech  thee,  swear  ! 
Harold  {putting his  hand  on  thejc7uel). 
I  swear  to  help  thee  to  the  crown 
of  England. 
William.  Thanks,   truthful  Earl ;    I 
did  not  doubt  thy  word. 

But  that  my  barons  might  believe  thy 
word, 

And   that  the   Holy   Saints    of   Nor- 
mandy 

When  thou  art  home  in  England,  with 
thme  own, 

Might  strengthen  thee   in  keeping  of 
thy  word, 

I   m^e  thee    swear. —  Show   him   by 
whom  he  hath  sworn. 
\The    two    Bishops    advance    and 
raise  the  cloth  of  gold.     The  bod- 
ies and  bones  of  Saints  are  seett 
lying  in  the  ark. 

The  holy  bones  of  all  the  Canonized 

From  all  the  holiest  shrines  in  Nor- 
mandy ! 
Harold.         Horrible ! 

[  They  let  the  cloth  fall  again. 
William..  Ay,  for   thou   hast  sworn 
an  oath 

Which,  if  not  kept,  would  make  the 
hard  earth  rive 

To  the  very  devil's  horns,  the  bright 
sky  cleave 

To  the  very  feet  of  God,  and  send  her 
hosts 

Of  injured  Saints  to  scatter  sparks  of 
plague 

Thro'  all  your  cities,  blast  your  infants, 
dash 

The  torch  of  war  among  your  standing 
corn. 

Dabble  your   hearths   with  your  own 
blood. — Enough  ! 

Thou  wilt  not  break  it !     I,  the  Count 
— the  King — 

Thy  friend — am  grateful  for  thine  hon- 
est oath, 

Not  coming  fiercely  like  a  conqueror, 
now, 

But  softly  as  a  bridegroom  to  his  own« 


634 


HAROLD. 


For   I   shall   rule    according   to  your 

laws, 
And  make  your  ever-jarring  Earldoms 

move 
To  music  and  in  order — Angle,  Jute, 
Dane,  Saxon,  Norman,  help  to  build  a 

throne 
Out-towering   hers   of   France.    .    .   . 

The  wind  is  fair 
For   England   now.  .  .  .  To-night  we 

will  be  merry. 
To-morrow  will  I  ride  with  thee   to 

Harfleur. 

[Exeunt  William  and  all  the  Nor- 
man  barons,  etc. 
Harold.  To-night  we  will  be  merry 

— and  to-morrow —  . 

Juggler  and  bastard— bastard— h^ates 

that  most — 
William  the  tanner's  bastard  I     Would 

he  heard  me  ! 

0  God,   that   I   were   in  some   wide, 

waste  field 
With  nothing  but  my  battle-axe  and 

him 
To  spatter  his  brains  !     Why  let  earth 

rive,  gulf  in 
These  cursed  Normans — yea,  and  mine 

own  self. 
Cleave  heaven,  and  send  thy  saints 

that  I  may  say 
Ev'n  to  their  faces,  "If  ye  side  with 

William 
Ye  are  not  noble."    How  their  pointed 

fingers 
Glared  at  me  !     Am  I  Harold,  Harold 

son 
Of  our  great  Godwin  ?    Lo  !  I  touch 

mine  arms. 
My  limbs — they  are  not  mine — they 

are  a  liars — 

1  mean  to  be  a  liar — I  am  not  bound — 
Stigand  shall  give  me   absolution  for 

it- 
Did  the  chest  move  ?  did  it  move  t    I 

am  utter  craven ! 
O  Wulfnoth,  Wulfnoth,  brother,  thou 

hast  betray'd  me  ! 
Wulfnoth.    Forgive  me,   brother,   I 

will  live  here  and  die. 


Enter  Page. 

Page.    My   lord !    the  Duke   awaits 

thee  at  the  banquet. 
Harold.  Where  they  eat  dead  men's 

flesh,  and  drink  their  blood. 
Page.  My  lord — 
Harold.  I  know  your  Norman  cook- 

ery  is  so  spiced, 
It  masks  all  this. 
Page.  My  lord !    thou   art  white  as 

death. 
Harold.  With  looking  on  the  dead. 

Am  I  so  white  ? 
Thy    Duke    will    seem    the    darker. 

Hence,  I  follow.  [Exeunt. 


ACT   III. 

SCENE    I.— THE    KING'S    PAX, 
ACE.     LONDON. 

King  Edward  dyiftg  07i  a  couch,  and 
by  him  standing  the  Qv^E-Y.^,  Harold, 
Archbishop  Stigand,  Gurth, 
Leofwin,  Archbishop  Aldred, 
Aldwyth,  and  Edith. 

Stigand.    Sleeping  or  dying  there? 

if  this  be  death. 
Then  our  great  Council  wait  to  crown 

thee  King — 
Come  hither,  I  have  a  power  : 

\to  Harold. 
They  call  me  near,  for  I  am  close  to 

thee 
And    England— I,  old    shrivell'd  Sti- 
gand, I, 
Dry  as  an  old  wood-fungus  on  a  dead 

tree, 
I  have  a  power  ! 

See  here  this  little  key  about  my  neck  ! 
There  lies  a  treasure  buried  down  in 

Ely: 
If  e'er  the  Norman  grow  too  hard  for 

thee. 
Ask  me  for  this  at  thy  most  need,  son 

Harold, 
At  thy  most  need — not  soQner. 
Harold,  So  I  will 


HAROLD. 


<^35 


Stigand.     Red    gold  —  a    hundred 
purses,  yea,  and  more ! 

If  thou  canst  make  a  wholesome  use  of 
these 

To   chink   against  the  Norman,  I  do 
believe 

My  old  crook'd  spine  would  bud  out 
two  young  wings 

To  fly  to  heaven  straight  with. 

Harold.  Thank  thee,  father  ! 

Thou  art  English,  Edward  too  is  Eng- 
lish now: 

He  hath  clean  repented  of  his  Norman- 
ism. 
Stigand.  Ay,  as  the  libertine  repents 
who  cannot 

Make   done    undone,   when   thro'   his 
dying  sense 

Shrills  "  lost  thro'  thee,"    They  have 
built  their  castles  here; 

Our  prisoners  are  Norman;  the   Nor- 
man adder 

Hath  bitten  us  ;  we  are  poison'd  ;  our 
dear  England 

Is  demi-Norman.     He  ! — 

[Pointing  to  KiNG  Edward  sleeping. 
Harold.  1  would  I  were 

As  holy  and  as  passionless  as  he  ! 

That  I  might  rest  as  calmly :    Look  at 
him — 

The  rosy  face,  and  long  down-silvering 
beard. 

The   brows  unwrinkled  as  a  summer 
mere — 
Stigand.  A  summer  mere  with  sud- 
den wreckful  gusts 

From  a  side  gorge.    Passionless  ?  How 
he  flamed 

When  Tostig's  anger'd  earldom  flung 
him,  nay, 

He  fain  had  calcined  all  Northumbria 

To  one  black  ash,  but  that  thy  patriot 
passion 

Siding  with  our  great  Council  against 
Tostig, 

Out-passion'd  his!    Holy?  ay,  ay,  for- 
sooth, 

A  conscience  for  his  own  soul,  not  his 
realm  ; 

A  twilight  conscience  lighted  thro'  a 
chink ; 


Thine  by  the  sun ;  nay,  by  some  sun  to 

be, 
When  all  the  world  hath  learnt  to  speak 

the  truth. 
And  lying  were  self-murder  by  that 

state 
Which  was  the  exception. 
Harold.     That  sun  may  God  speed  ! 
Stigand.  Come,   Harold,   shake   the 

cloud  off! 
Harold.  Can  I,  father } 
Our   Tostig   parted   cursing   me    and 

England ; 
Our  sister  hates  us  for  his  banishment; 
He  hath  gone  to  kindle  Norway  against 

England, 
And  Wulfnoth  is  alone  in  Normandy. 
For  when  I  rode  with  William  down  to 

Harfleur, 
"  Wulfnoth  is  sick,"  he  said  ;  "  he  can^ 

not  follow;  " 
Then  with  that  friendly-fiendly  smile 

of  his, 
"  We  have  learnt  to  love  him,  let  him 

a  little  longer 
Remain  a  hostage  for  the  loyalty 
Of  Godwin's  house."  As  far  as  touches 

Wulfnoth, 
I  that  so  prized  plain  word  and  naked 

truth 
Have  sinn'd  against  it — all  in  vain. 

Leo/win.  Good  brother, 

By  all  the  truths  that  ever  priest   hath 

preach'd, 
Of  all  the  lies  that  ever  men  have  lied. 
Thine  is  the  pardonablest. 

Harold.  May  be  so  ! 

I  think  it  so,  I  think  I  am  a  fool 
To  think  it  can  be  otherwise  than  so. 
Stigand.   Tut,  tut,  I  have  absolved 

thee  :  dost  thou  scorn  me, 
Because  I  had  my  Canterbury  pallium 
From  one  whom  they  dispoped  } 

Harold.  No,  Stigand,  no  ! 

Stigand.  Is  naked  truth   actable   in 

true  life  } 
I  have   heard  a  saying  of  thy  father 

Godwin, 
That,  were  a  man  of  state  nakedly  true, 
Men  would  but  take  him  for  the  cruftiei 

liar. 


Leofzvin.  Be  men  less  delicate  than 

the  Devil  himself  ? 
I    thought    that    naked   Truth    would 

shame  the  Devil, 
The  Devil  is  so  modest. 

Gurth.  He  never  said  it ! 

Leofwin.  Be  thou  not  stupid-honest, 

brother  Gurth ! 
Harold.  Better  to  be  a  liar's  dog,  and 

hold 
My  master  honest,  than  believe  that 

lying 
And  ruling  men  are  fatal  twins  that 

cannot 
Move  one  without  the  other.     Edward 

wakes ! — 
Dazed — he  hath  seen  a  vision. 

Echvard.  The  green  tree  ! 

Then   a  great   Angel  past   along   the 

highest, 
Crying,  "  the  doom  of  England,"  and  at 

once 
He   stood  beside  me,  in  his  grasp  a 

sword 
Of  lightnings,  wherewithal  he  cleft  the 

tree 
From  off  the  bearing  trunk,  and  hurl'd 

it  from  him 
Three  fields  away,  and  then  he  dash'd 

and  drench'd, 
He  dyed,   he   soak'd  the   trunk   with 

human  blood. 
And  brought  the  sunder'd  tree  again, 

and  set  it 
Straight  on  the   trunk,  that  thus  bap- 
tized in  blood 
Grew  ever  high  and  higher,  beyond  my 

seeing. 
And  shot  out  sidelong  boughs  across 

the  deep 
That  dropt  themselves,  and  rooted  in 

far  isles 
I^eyond    my    seeing :    and   the    great 

Angel  rose 
And  past  again  along  the   highest,  cry- 
ing, 
''The    doom    of  England,"  —  Tostig, 

raise  my  head  !  [Falls  back  senseless. 
Harold  {raising  him).     Let  Harold 

serve  for  Tostig  ! 
Queen.  Harold  served 


Tostig  so  ill,  he  cannot  serve  for  Tostig! 
Ay,  raise  his  head,  for  thou  hast  laid  it 

low! 
The  sickness  of  our  saintly  king,  for 

whom 
My  prayers  go  up  as  fast  as  my  tears 

fall, 
I  well  believe,  hath  mainly  drawn  itself 
From  lack  of  Tostig — thou  hast  ban- 
ish'd  him. 
Harold.  Nay— but  the  Council,  and 

the  king  himself ! 
Queen.  Thou  hatest  him,  hatest  him. 
Harold  {coldly).    Ay — Stigand,    un- 
riddle 
This  vision,  canst  thou  ? 

Stigand.  Dotage ! 

Edzijard  {starting  up).     It  is  finish'd. 
I  have  built  the   Lord   a   house — the 

Lord  hath  dwelt 
In  darkness.     I  have  built  the  Lord  a 

house — 

Palms,  flowers,  pomegranates,   golden 

cherubim  [wall — ■ 

With  twenty-cubit  wings  from  wall  ty 

I  have  built  the   Lord  a  house — sing, 

Asaph  !  clash 
The  cymbal,  Heman!  blow  the  trum- 
pet, priest  ! 
Fall,  cloud,  and  fill  the  house — lo !  my 

two  pillars, 
Jachin  and  Boaz ! — 

{Seeing  HAROLD  and GuKin. 
Harold,  Gurth, — where  am  I  ? 
Where  is  the  chartei  of  our  Westmin- 
ster? 
Stigand.    It  lies   beside    thee,   king, 

upon  thy  bed. 
Edward.  Sign,  sign  at   once — take, 
sign  it,  Stigand,  Aldred  ! 
Sign  it,  my  good  sou   Harold,  Gurth 

and  Leofwin, 
Sign  it,  my  queen  ! 
All.  We  have  sign'd  it 

Edward.  It  is  finish'd  \ 

The  kingliest  Abbey  in  all  Christian 

lands, 
The  lordliest,  loftlicst  ninster  ever  built 
To  Holy  Peter  in  our  English  isle ! 
Let  me  be  buried  there,  and  all  o«i 
kings, 


HAROLD 


HI 


.^  r?<J  all  our  just  and  wise  and  holy  men 
Thjvt   shall    be   born  hereafter.     It    is 

finish'd  1 
Ka.^t  thou   had   absolution    for   thine 
oath  ?  [  To  HAROI.D. 

Harold.  Stigand  hath  given  me  abso- 
lution for  it. 
Echvard    Stigand   is   not  canonical 
enough 
To  save  thee  from  the  wrath  of  Norman 
Saints. 
Stigand.  Merman  enough !    Be  there 
no  Saintc-.  of  England 
To  help  us  from  their  brethren  yonder  ? 
Edward.  Prelate, 

The  Saints  arc  onc>  but  those   of  Nor- 

manland 

Are  mightier  than  our  own.    Ask  it  of 

Aldred.  [Tl' Harold. 

Aldred.  It  sbaU  b^  granted  him,  my 

king  ;  for  he 

Who  vows  a  \o\\  to  Ltiangle  his  own 

mother 
Is  guiltier  keeping'  this,  than  breaking  it. 
Edward.  O  friends,  I  shall  not  over- 
live the  day. 
Stigand.    Why   then   the    throne   i> 
empty.     Who  inherits? 
For  tho'  we  be  not  bound  bj'  tbe  kivig's 

voice 
In  making  of  a  king,  yet  the  kiag's 

voice 
Is  much  toward  his  making.    Who  in> 

herits  .? 
Edgar  the  Atheling  ? 

Edward.  No,  no,  but  Harold. 

I  love  him:  he  hath  served  me:  none 

but  he 
Can  rule  all  England.%  Yet  the  curse 

is  on  him 
For  swearing  falsely  by  those  blessed 

bones ; 
He  did  not  mean  to  keep  his  vow. 

Harold.  Not  mean 

To  make  our  England  Norman. 

Edward.  There  spake  Godwin, 

Who    hated    all   the    Normans:     but 

their  Saints 
Have  heard  thee,  Harold. 

Edith.  Oh  !  my  lord,  my  king  ! 

He  knew  not  whom  he  sware  by. 


Edtvard.  Yea,  I  know 

He  knew  not,  but  those  heavenly  ears 

have  heard, 
Their  curse  is  on  him  :  wilt  thou  bring 

another, 
Edith,  upon  his  head  ? 

Edith.  N05  no,  not  I. 

Edward.   Why  then,  thou  must  not 

wed  him. 
Harold.  Wherefore,  wherefore  .-* 
Edward.  O  son,  when  thou  didst  tell 

me  of  thine  oath, 
I   sorrow'd  for   my   random    promise 

given 
To  yon  fox-lion.    I  did  not  dream  then 
I  should  be  king. — My  son,  the  Saints 

are  virgins; 
They  love  the  white  rose  of  virginity, 
The   cold,  white  lily  blowing   in   her 

cell: 
I  have  been  myself  a  virgin;    and  I 

sware .  -^ 

To  consecrate  my  virgin  here  to  heav- 
en— 
The  silent,  cloister'd,  solitary  life, 
A  life  of  life-long  prayer  against  the 

curse 
That  lies  on  thee  and  England. 
Harold.        •  No,  no,  no. 

Edward.  Treble  denial  of  the  tongue 

of  flesh. 
Like  Peter's  when  he  fell,  and   thou 

wilt  have 
To  wail  for  it  like  Peter.     O  my  son  ! 
Are  all  oaths  to  be  broken  then,  all 

promises 
Made  in  our  agony  for  help  from  heav- 
en .-* 
Son,  there  is  one  \yho  loves  thee :  and 

a  wife, 
What  matters  who,  so  she  be  service- 
able 
In  all  obedience,  as   mine  own  hath 

been: 
God  bless  thee,  wedd-^d  daughter. 

[Laying  his  hand  on  the  Queen's 
head. 
Queen.  Blesr^  th.">'  too 

That  brother  whom  I  Icve  beyond   th* 

rest. 
My  banish'd  Tostig. 


<53S 


HAROLD. 


Edward.  All  the  sweet  Saints  bless 
him  ! 
Spare   and  forbear  him,  Harold,  if  he 

comes ! 
And  let  him  pass  unscathed  ;  he  loves 

me,  Harold ! 
Be  kindly  to  the  Normans  left  among 

us, 
Who  follow'd  me  for  love !  and  dear 

son,  swear, 
When  thou  art  king,  to  see  my  solemn 

vow 
Accomplish'd  ! 
Harold.  Nay,  dear  lord,  for  I  have 
sworn 
Not  to  swear  falsely  twice. 

Edward.  Thou  wilt  not  swear  ? 

Harold.  I  cannot. 

Edward.  Then  on  thee  remains  the 
curse,  [thee, 

Harold,  if  thou  embrace  her ;  and  on 
Edith,  if  thou  abide  it, — 

{The  ¥ji^<^  swoons ;   Edith /alls 
and  kneels  by  the  couch. 
Stigand.  He  hath  swoon'd ! 

Death  .''...  no,  as  yet  a  breath. 

Harold.  Look  up  1  look  up  ! 

Edith ! 

Aldred.  Confuse  her*%iot.;  she  hath 
begun 
Her  life-long  prayer  for  thee. 

Aldwyth.  O  noble  Harold, 

I  would  thou  couldst  have  sworn. 
Harold.         For  thine  own  pleasure  ? 
Aldwyth.  No,  but  to  please  our  dy- 
ing king,  and  those 
Who   make  thy  good  their   own — all 
England,  Earl. 
Aldred.  I  would  thou  couldst  have 
sworn.     Our  holy  king 
Hath  given  his  virgin  lamb  to  Holy 

Church 
To  save  thee  from  the  curse. 

Harold.  Alas  !  poor  man. 

His  promise  brought  it  on  me. 

Aldred.  O  good  son  ! 

That   knowledge   made    him    all    the 

carefuller 
To  find  a  means   whereby  the  curse 

might  glance 
From  thee  and  Eagland. 


Harold.  Father,  we  so  loved — 

Aldred.    The    more    the    love,    the 
mightier  is  the  prayer  ; 
The  more  the  love,  the  more  accept- 
able 
The   sacrifice   of   both  your   loves  to 

heaven. 
No  sacrifice  to  heaven,  no  help  from 

heaven ; 
That  runs  thro*  all  the  faiths  of  all  the 

world. 
And  sacrifice  there  must  be,  for  the 

king 
Is  holy,  and  hath  talk'd  with  God,  and 

seen 
A  shadowing  horror;  there  are  signs 
in  heaven — 
Harold.  Your  comet  came  and  went. 
Aldred.  And  signs  on  earth  I 

Knowest  thou  Senlac  hill? 

Harold.  I  know  all  Sussex  j 

A  good   intrenchment  for  a  perilous 

hour ! 

Aldred.    Pray   God   that   come   not 

suddenly  !     There  is  one 

Who  passing  by  that  hill  three  nights 

ago— 
He  shook  so  that  he  scarce  could  out 

with  it — 
Heard,  heard — 
Harold.  The  wind  in  his  hair  ? 

Aldred.  A  ghostly  horn 

Blowing   continually,  and  faint  battle 

hymns, 
And  cries,  and  clashes,  and  the  groans 

of  men ; 
And  dreadful  shadows  strove  upon  the 

hill. 
And  dreadful  lights  crept  up  from  out 

the  marsh — 
Corpse-candles  gliding  over  nameless 
graves — 
Harold.  At  Senlac  ? 
Aldred.  Senlac. 

Edward  {waking).  Senlac  !    Sanguc- 
lac, 
The  Lake  of  Blood! 

Stigand.  This  lightning  before  death 
Plays  on   the  word, — and  Norman ize? 
(00  ! 
Harold.  Hush,  father,  hush  1 


HAROLD. 


639 


Edward,         Thou  uncanonical  fool, 
Wilt    thou    play    with    the    thunder? 

North  and  South 
Thunder   together,  showers  of  blood 

are  blown 
Before  a  never-ending  blast,  and  hiss 
Against  the  blaze   they  cannot  quench 

— a  lake, 
A  sea  of   blood — we   are   drown'd   in 

blood — for  God 
Has  fill'd  the  quiver,  and  Death  has 

drawn  the  bow — 
Sanguelac  !  Sanguelac  !  the  arrow  !  the 

arrow !  \Dies. 

Stigand.  It  is  the  arrow  of  Death  in 

his  own  heart — 
And  our  great  Council  wait  to  crown 

thee  King. 

SCENE  IT.— IN  THE  GARDEN. 
THE  KING'S  HOUSE  NEAR 
LONDON. 

Edith.   Crown'd,   crown'd  and  lost, 
crown'd  King — and  lost  to  me  ! 

{Singi7ig.) 

Two  young  lovers  in  winter  weather, 

None  to  guide  them, 
Walk'd  at  night  on  the  misty  heather ; 
Night,  as  black  as  a  raven's  feather ; 
Both  were  lost  and  found  together, 

None  beside  them. 

That  is  the  burthen   of  it — ^lost  and 

found 
Together  in  the  cruel  river  Swale 
A   hundred  years    ago;    and    there's 

another. 

Lost,  lost,  the  light  of  day. 
To  which  the  lover  answers  lovingly, 

*'  I  am  beside  thee." 
Lost,  lost,  we  have  lost  the  way. 

"  Love,  I  will  guide  thee." 
Whither,  O  whither  ?  into  the  river. 
Where  we  two  may  be  lost  together, 
And  lost  forever?     "Oh!  never,  oh!  never, 
Tho'  we  be  lost  and  be  found  together." 

Some  think  they  loved  within  the  pale 

forbidden 
By  Holy  Church  J  but  who  shall  say? 

the  truth 


Was  lost  in  that  fierce   North,  where 

they  were  lost, 
Where  all  good  things  are  lost,  where 

Tostig  lost 
The  good  hearts  of  his  people.     It  i.? 

Harold  ! 

Enter  Harold. 

Harold,  the  King ! 

Harold.  Call  me  not  King,  but  Hap 

old. 
Edith.  Nay,  thou  art  King ! 
Harold.    Thine,   thine,   or   King   or 

churl ! 
My  girl,  thou  hast  been  weeping :  turn 

not  thou 
Thy  face  away,  but  rather  let  me  be 
King  of  the  moment  to  thee,  and  com- 
mand 
That  kiss  my  due  when  subject,  which 

will  make 
My  kingship  kinglier  to  me   than  to 

reign 
King  of  the  world  without  it. 

Edith.  Ask  me  not. 

Lest  I  should  yield  it,  and  the  second 

curse 
Descend  upon  thine  head,  and  thou  be 

only 
King  of  the  moment  over  England. 

Harold.  Edith, 

Tho'  somewhat  less  a  king  to  my  true 

self 
Than  ere  they  crown'd  me   one,  for  I 

have  lost 
Somewhat    of    upright    stature    thro' 

mine  oath,  " 
Yet  thee  I  would  not  lose,  and  sell  not 

thou 
Our  living  passion  for  a  dead  man's 

dream  ; 
Stigand  believed  he  knew  not  what  he 

spake. 
Oh   God  !    I   cannot  help   it,  but  at 

times 
They  seem  to  me  too  narrow,  all  the 

faiths 
Of  this  grown  world  of  ours,  whose 

baby  eye 
Saw  them  sufficient.     Fool  and  wise,  I 

fear 


640 


HAROLD, 


This  curse,  and  scorn  it.     But  a  little 

light  !— 
And   on  it   falls    the    shadow   of   the 

priest ; 
Heaven  yield   us   more !    for    better, 

Woden,  all 
Our  cancell'd  warrior-gods,  our   grim 

Walhalla, 
Eternal  war,  than  that  the   Saints  at 

peace 
The  Holiest  of  our  Holiest  one  should 

be 
This  William's  fellow-tricksters  ; — bet- 
ter die 
Than  credit  this,  for  death  is  death,  or 

else 
Lifts  us  beyond  the  lie.    Kiss  me — 

thou  art  not 
A  holy  sister  yet,  my  girl,  to  fear 
There  might  be  more  than  brother  in 

my  kiss, 
And  more  than  sister  in  thine  own. 
Edith.  I  dare  not. 

Harold.    Scared    by    the    church — 
Love  for  a  whole  life  long" 


When  was  that 


sung 


Edith.         Here  to  the  nightingales. 
Harold.  Their  anthems  of  no  church, 
how  sweet  they  are  ! 
Nor  kingly  priest,  nor  priestly  king  to 

cross 
Their  billings  ere  they  nest. 

Edith.  They  are  but  of  spring. 

They  fly  the  winter  change — not  so 

with  us — 
No  wmgs  to  come  and  go. 

Harold.  But  wing'd  souls  flying 

Beyond  all  change,  and  in  the  eternal 

distance 
To  settle  on  the  Truth. 

Edith.  They  are  not  so  true, 

They  change  their  mates. 

Harold,  Do  they  ?  I  did  not  know  it. 
Edith.  They  say  thou  art  to  wed  the 

Lady  Aldwyth. 
Harold.  They  say,  they  say. 
Edith.  If  this  be  politic, 

And  well  for  thee  and  England — and 

for  her — 
Care  not  for  me  who  love  thee. 

Gurth  {calling).        Harold,  Harold  ! 


Harold.  The  voice  of  Gurth  !  [Entef 
Gurth.)     Good   even,   my  good 
brother ! 
Gnrth.  Good  even,  gentle  Edith. 
Edith.  Good  even,  Gurth. 

Gurth.    Ill  news  hath  come !      Our 
hapless  brother,  Tostig — 
He,  and  the  giant  King  of  ;^forwav, 

Harold 
I  lardrada — Scotland,  Ireland,  Iceland, 

Orkney, 
Are  landed  North  of  Huml^er,  and  in 

a  field 
So  packt  with  carnage  that  the  dikes 

and  brooks 
Were  bridged  and  damm'd  with  dead, 

have  overthrown 
Morcar  and  Edwin. 

Harold.       Well  then,  we  must  fight. 
How  blows  the  wind  .'' 

Gurth.  Against  St.  Valery 

And  William. 

Harold.    Well  then,  we  will  to  the 

North. 

Gurth.   Ay,   but   worse   news:    this 

William  sent  to  Rome, 

Swearing  thou  swarest  falsely  by  his 

Saints :  [brand 

The  Pope  and  that  Archdeacon  Hilde- 

His  master,  heard  him,  and  have  sent 

him  back 
A  holy  gonfanon,  and  a  blessed  hair 
Of    Peter,   and    all    France,   all   Bur- 
gundy, 
Poitou,    all    Christendom,    is    raised 

against  thee  : 
He  hath  cursed  thee,  and  all  tliose  who 

fight  for  thee, 
And  given  thy  realm  of  England  to  the 
bastard. 
Harold.  Ha!  ha! 

Edith.  Oh  !  laugh  not !  .  .  .  Strange 
and  ghastly  in  the  gloom 
And  shadowing  of  this  double  thunder- 
cloud 
That  lowers  on  England — laughter  ! 

Harold.  No,  not  strange 

This  was  old  human  laughter  in  oil 

Rome 
Before  a   Pope   was  born,  when  that 
which  reign'd 


HAROLD. 


641 


Caird  itself  God. — A  kindly  rendering 
Of  "  Render   unto   Caesar."  .  .  .  The 

Good  Shepherd  ! 
Take  this,  and  render  that. 

Gurtk.  They  have  taken  York. 

Harold.    The   Lord   was    God   and 
came  as  man — the  Pope 
Is   man   and    comes    as  God. — York 
taken  ? 
Gurth.         Yea, 
Tostig  hath  taken  York  ! 

Harold.  To  York  then.     Edith, 

Hadst  thou  been  braver,  I  had  better 

braved 
All— but  I  love  thee  and  thou  me — 

and  that 
Remains  beyond  all  chances  and  all 

churches, 
And  that  thou  knowest. 

Edith.      Ay,  but  take  back  thy  ring. 
It  bums  my  hand — a  curse  to  thee  and 

me. 
I  dare  not  wear  it. 

\Pr0ffer3  Harold  the  ring,  which 

he  takes.  ■ 

Harold.  But  I  dare.     God  with  thee ! 

[Exeunt  HAROLD  ajtd  GuRTH 

Edith.  The  King  hath  cursed  him  if 

he  marry  me ; 

The  Pope  hath  cursed  him,  marry  me 

or  no  ! 
God  help  me  !     I  know  nothing — can 

but  pray 
For   Harold — pray,   pray,   pray  —  no 

help  but  prayer, 
A  breath  that  fleets  beyond  this  iron 

world, 
And  touches  Him  that  made  it. 


ACT  IV. 
SCENE  I.— IN  NORTHUMBRIA. 

Archbishop  Aldred,  Morcar,  Ed- 
win, and  Forces.  Enter  Harold  ; 
the  standard  of  the  golden  Dragofi  of 
Wessex preceding  him. 

Harold.  What !  are  thy  people  sul- 
len from  defeat  ? 


Our  Wessex  dragon  flies  beyond  the 

Humber, 
No  voice  to  greet  it. 

Edwin.  Let  not  our  great  king 

Believe  us  sullen — only  shamed  to  the 

quick 
Before  the  king — as  having  been  s» 

bruised 
By  Harold,  king  of  Norway;  but  our 

help 
Is  Harold,  king  of  England.     Pardon 

us,  thou  ! 
Oui  silence  is  our  reverence  for  the 
king! 
Harold.   Earl  of  the   Mercians !    if 
the  truth  be  gall, 
Cram  me   not  thou  with  honey,  when 

our  good  hive 
Needs  every  sting  to  save  it. 

Voices.  Aldwyth,  Aldwyth  I 

Harold.  Why  cry  thy  people  on  thy 

sister's  name .'' 
Morcar.    She   hath   won   upon   our 
people  thro'  her  beauty, 
And  pleasantness  among  them. 

Voices.  Aldwyth,  Aldwyth! 

Harold.  They  shout  as  they  would 

have  her  for  a  queen. 
Morcar.  She  hath  followed  with  our 

host,  and  suffer'd  all. 
Hc^ipld,  What  would  ye,  men  ? 
Voice.  Our  old  Northumbrian  crown. 
And  kings  of  our  own  choosing. 

Harold.  Your  old  crown 

Were   little   help  without   our   Saxon 

carles 
Against  Hardrada. 

Voice.  Little  !  we  are  Danes, 

Who  conquer'd  what  we  walk  on,  our 
own  field. 
Harold.    They   have    been   plotting 
here !  [Aside. 

Voice.       He  calls  us  little ! 
Harold.  The  kingdoms  of  this  world 
began  with  little, 
A  hill,  a  fort,  a  city — that  reach'd  a 

hand 
Down  to  the   field  beneath  it,    "Be 

thou  mine," 
Then  to  the  next.  "  Thou  also  "—if  the 
field 


642 


HAROLD. 


Cried  out  "  I  am  mine  own, "  another 

hill, 
Or  fort,  or  city,  took  it,  and  the  first 
Fell,  and  the  next  became  an  Empire. 
Voice.  Yet 

Thou  art  but  a  West  Saxon ;  we  are 
Danes ! 
Harold.  My  mother  is  a  Dane,  and 
I  am  English ; 
There  is  a  pleasant  fable  in  old  books, 
Ye  take  a  stick,  and  break  it;  bind  a 

score 
All  in  one  fagot,  snap  it  over  knee 
Ye  cannot. 

Voice.  Hear  King  Harold !  he  says 

true  ! 
Harold.  Would  ye  be  Norsemen  ? 
Voices.        No ! 

Harold.  Or  Norman  ? 

Voices.  No ! 

Harold.    Snap  not    the  fagot-band 

then. 
Voice.      That  is  true  ! 
Voice.  Ay,  but  thou  art  not  kingly, 
only  grandson 
To  Wulfnoth,  a  poor  cow-herd. 

Harold.  This  old  Wulfnoth 

Would  take  me  on  his  knees  and  tell 

me  tales 
Of  Alfred  and  of  Athelstan  the  Great 
Who  drove  you  Danes;    and  yet  he 
held  that  Dane,  [all 

Jute,  Angle,  Saxon,  were  or  should  be 
One  England,  for  this  cow-herd,   like 

my  father. 
Who  shook  the  Norman  scoundrels  off 

the  throne. 
Had  in  him  kingly  thoughts — a  king 

of  men, 
Not  made  but  born,  like   the    great 

King  of  all, 
A  light  among  the  oxen. 

Voice.  That  is  true  ! 

Voice.  Ay,  and  I  love  him  now,  for 
mine  own  father 
Was  great,  and  cobbled. 

Voice.         Thou  art  Tostig's  brother, 
Who  wastes  the  land. 

Harold.   This  brother  comes  to  save 
Your  land  from  waste;  I  saved  it  once 
before, 


For  when  your  people  banish'd  Tostig 

hence. 
And  Edward  would  have  sent  a  host 

against  you, 
Then  I,  who  loved  my  brother,  bade 

the  king 
Who    doted    on    him,  sanction    your 

decree 
Of  Tostig's  banishment,  and  choice  of 

Morcar, 
To  help  the  realm  from  scattering. 

Voice.  King !  thy  brother. 

If  one  may  dare  to  speak  the  truth, 

was  wrong'd. 
Wild  was  he,  born  so  :  but  the  plots 

against  him 
Had  madden'd  tamer  men. 

Morcar.  Thou  art  one  of  those 

Who  brake  into  Lord  Tostig's  treas' 

ure-house 
And  slew  two  hundred  of  his  follow- 
ing, 
And  now,  when  Tostig    hath    come 

back  with  power. 
Are  frighted  back  to  Tostig. 

Old  Thane.    Ugh  !  Plots  and  feuds  ! 
This  is  my  ninetieth  birthday.     Can 

ye  not 
Be  brethren  ?     Godwin  still   at  feud 

with  Alfgar, 
And  Alfgar  hates  King  Harold.    Plos- 

and  feuds ! 
This  is  my  ninetieth  birthday ! 

Harold.  Old  man,  Harold 

Hates  nothing ;  not  his  fault,  if  our 

two  houses 
Be  less  than  brothers. 

Voices.    Aldwyth,  Harold,  Aldwyth  ! 
Harold.   Again  !    Morcar  !    Edwin  ! 

What  do  they  mean  ? 
Edwin.    So    the  good   king    might 

deign  to  lend  an  ear 
Not  overscornful,  we  might  chance — 

perchance — 
To  guess  their  meaning. 

Morcar.  Thine  own  meaning,  Har- 
old, 
To  make  all  England  one,  to  close  all 

feuds. 
Mixing  our  bloods,  that  thence  a  king 

may  rise 


HAROLD. 


643 


Half-Godwin  and  half-Alfgar,  one  to 

rule  [quarrel. 

All  England  beyond  question,  beyond 

Harold.  Who  sow'd  this  fancy  here 

among  the  people  ? 
Morcar.  Who  knows  what  sows  it- 
self among  the  people  ? 
A  goodly  flower  at  times. 

Harold.  The  Queen  of  Wales  ? 

Why,  Morcar,  it  is  all  but  duty  in  her 
To  hate  me ;  I  have  heard  she  hates 
me. 
Morcar.  No. 
For  I  can  swear  to  that,  but  cannot 

swear 
That  these  will  follow  thee  against  the 

Norsemen, 
If  thou  deny  them  this. 

Harold.  Morcar  and  Edwin, 

When  will  ye  cease  to  plot  against  my 

house  ? 

Edwin.  The  king  can  scarcely  dream 

that  we,  who  know 

His  prowess  in  the  mountains  of  the 

West,  [North. 

Should  care  to  plot  against  him  in  the 

Morcar.     Who    dares     arraign    us, 

king,  of  such  a  plot  ? 
Harold.  Ye  heard  one  witness  even 

now. 
Morcar.  The  craven ! 
There  is  a  faction  risen  again  for  Tos- 

tig, 
Since   Tostig    came    with    Norway — 
fright  not  love. 
Harold.  Morcar  and  Edwin,  will  ye, 
if  I  yield, 
Follow  against  the  Norsemen  ? 
Morcar.  Surely,  surely  ! 

Harold.  Moicar  and  Edwin,  will  ye 
upon  oath 
Help  us  against  the  Norman  ? 

Morcar.  With  good  will ; 

Yea,  take  the  Sacrament  upon  it,  king. 
Harold.  Where  is  thy  sister  .-* 
Morcar.      Somewhere  hard  at  hand. 
Call  and  she  comes. 

[^Onegoes  out,  then  ettter  Aldwyth. 
Harold.  I  doubt  not  but  thou  know- 
est 


Aldwyth.    Why  ? — I  stay  with  these. 
Lest   thy   fierce   Tostig    spy   me    out 

alone, 
And  flay  me  all  alive. 

Harold.  Canst  thou  love  one 

Who  did  discrown  thine  husband,  un- 

queen  thee  .-* 
Didst  thou  not  love  thine  husband } 

Aldwyth.  Oh  !  my  lord, 

The  nimble,  wild,  red,  wiry,  savage 

king- 
That  was,  my  lord,  a  match  of  policy. 

Harold.  Was  it  ? 

I  knew  him  brave  :  he  loved  his  land : 

he  fain 
Had  made  her  great :  his  finger  on  her 

harp 
(I  heard  him  more  than  once)  had  in 

it  Wales, 
Her  floods,  her  woods,  her  hills  :  had 

I  been  his, 
I  had  been  all  Welsh. 
Aldwyth.    Oh,   ay — all   Welsh — and 

yet 
I  saw  thee  drive  him  up  his  hills — and 

women 
Cling  to  the  conquer'd,  if  they  love, 

the  more  ; 
If  not,  they  cannot  hate  the  conqueror. 
We  never — oh !   good  Morcar,  speak 

for  us, 
His  conqueror  conquer'd  Aldwyth. 
Harold.  Goodly  news ! 

Morcar.  Doubt  it  not  thou  !     Since 

Griffyth's  head  was  sent 
To  Edward,  she  hath  said  it. 

Harold.  I  had  rather 

She  would  have  loved  her  husband. 

Aldwyth,  Aldwyth, 
Canst   thou   love   me,   thou    knowing 

where  I  love  } 
Aldwyth.  I   can,  my  lord,   for   mine 

own  sake,  for  thine. 
For  England,  for  thy  poor  white  dove, 

who  flutters 
Between  thee  and  the  porch,  but  then 

would  find 
Her  nest  within  the   cloister,  and  be 

still. 
Harold.  Canst  thou  love  one,  who 

cannot  love  again  ? 


Aldwyth.  Full  hope  have  I  that  love 

will  answer  love. 
Harold.  Then  in  the  name   of   the 
great  God,  so  be  it ! 
Come,  Aldred,  join   our  hands  before 

the  hosts, 
That  all  may  see. 

[A  LDREDy<7/«j  the  hands  ^HAROLD 
and  Aldwyth,  and  blesses  them. 
Voices.  Harold,    Harold    and    Ald- 
wyth ! 
Harold.  Set  forth  our  golden  Dragon, 
let  him  flap 
The  wings  that  beat  down  Wales  ! 
Advance  our  Standard  of  the  warrior. 
Dark  among  gems  and  gold ;  and  thou, 

brave  banner. 
Blaze  like  a  night  of  fatal  stars  on 

those 
Who  read  their  doom  and  die. 
Where  lie  the  Norsemen  ?  on  the  Der- 

went  ?  ay, 
At  Stamford-bridge. 
Morcar,  collect  thy  men;  Edwin,  my 

friend — 
Thou  lingerest.  — Gurth, — 
Last  night  King  Edward  came  to  me 

in  dreams — 
The  rosy  face  and  long  down-silvering 

beard — 
He  told  me  I  should  conquer : — 
I  am  no  woman  to  put  faith  in  dreams. 

(  To  his  army. ) 
Last  night  King  Edward  came  to  me 

in  dreams, 
And  told  me  we  should  conquer. 

Voices,  Forward !     Forward  ! 

Harold  and  Holy  Cross  ! 
Aldzvyth.  The  day  is  won ! 

SCENE  IL— A  PLAIN.  BEFORE 
THE  BATTLE  OF  STAM- 
FORD-BRIDGE. 

Harold  and  his  Guard. 

Harold.  Who  is  it  comes  this  way  "i 
Tostig  ?     [Enter  TosTiG    with  a 
small  force.)  O  brother, 
What  art  thou  doing  here  } 

Tostig.  I  am  foraging 

For  Norway's  army* 


Harold.  I  could  take  and  slay  thee 
Thou  art  in  arms  against  us. 

Tostig.  Take  and  slay  me. 

For  Edward  loved  me. 

Harold.  Edward  bade  me  spare  thee. 
Tostig.  I  hate  King  Edward,  for  he 
join'd  with  thee 
To  drive  me  outlaw'd.     Take  and  slay 

me,  I  say, 
Or  I  shall  count  thee  fool. 

Harold.  Take  thee,  or  free  thee, 

Free  thee  or  slay  thee,  Norway  will 

have  war; 
No  man  would  strike  with  Tostig,  save 

for  Norway. 
Thou  art  nothing  in  thine   England, 

save  for  Norway, 
Who  loves  not  thee,  but  war.     What 

dost  thou  here, 
Trampling  thy  mother's    bosom   into 
blood  t 
Tostig.  She  hath  wean'd  me  from  it 
with  such  bitterness. 
I   come   for   mine   own  Earldom,  my 
Northumbria  ;  [house. 

Thou  hast  given  it  to  the  enemy  of  our 
Harold.  Northumbria  threw  thee  off, 
she  will  not  have  thee. 
Thou  hast  misused  her ;  and,  O  crown- 
ing crime  ! 
Hast  murder'd  thine   own  guest,  the 

son  of  Orm, 
Gamel,  at  thine  own  hearth. 

Tostig.  The  slow,  fat  fool ! 

He  drawl'd  and  prated  so,  I  smote  him 

suddenly  : 
I  knew  not  what  I  did. 

Harold.  Come  back  to  us. 

Know  what  thou  dost,  and  we  may  find 

for  thee. 
So  thou  be  chasten'd  by  thy  banish- 
ment, 
Some  easier  Earldom. 

Tostig.  What  for  Norway  then  ? 

He  looks  for  land  among  you,  he  and 
his. 
Harold.  Seven  feet  of  English  land, 
or  something  more, 
Seeing  he  is  a  giant. 

Tostiir.  O  brother,  brother; 

O  Harold— 


HAROLD. 


64s 


Harold.  Nay,  then,  come  thou  back 

to  us ! 
Tostig.    Never   shall    any   man   say 

that  I,  that  Tostig, 
Conjured  the  mightier  Harold  from  his 

North 
To  do  the  battle  for  me  here  in  Eng- 
land, 
Then  left  him  for  the  meaner !  thee ! — 
Thou  hast  no  passion  for  the  House  of 

Godwin — 
Thou  hast  but  cared  to  make  thyself  a 

king— 
Thou  hast  sold  me  for  a  cry. — 
Thou  gavest  thy  voice  against  me  in 

the  Council — 
I  hate  thee,  and  despise  thee,  and  defy 

thee. 
Farewell  forever !  \Exit. 

Harold.         On  to  Stamford-bridge! 

SCENE  in.— AFTER  THE  BAT- 
TLE OF  STAMFORD-BRIDGE. 
BANQUET. 

Harold  and  Aldwyth.  Gurth, 
Leofw^in,  Morcar,  Edwin,  and 
other  Earls  and  Thanes. 

Voices.    Hail !     Harold !     Aldwyth  ! 

hail,  bridegroom  and  bride  ! 
Aldwyth     [talking    with    Harold). 

Answer  them  thou  ! 
Is  this  our  marriage-banquet  }'   Would 

the  wines 
Of  wedding  had  been  dash'd  into  the 

cups 
Of  victory,  and  our  marriage  and  thy 

glory 
Been     drunk    together !    these    poor 

hands  but  sew, 
Spin,  broider — would   that   they  were 

man's  to  have  held 
The  battle-axe  by  thee  ! 

Harold.  There  was  a  moment 

When  being  forced  aloof  from  all  my 

guard, 
And    striking   at   Hardrada    and   his 

madmen, 
[  had  wish'd  for  any  weapon. 
Aldwyth.  Why  art  thou  sad  ? 


Harold.  I   have   lost  the    boy  who 

played  at  ball  with  me, 
With   whom   I   fought   another    fight 

than  this 
Of  Stamford-bridge. 

Ald7vyth.  Ay!  ay!  thy  victories 

Over  our  own  poor  Wales,  when  at 

thy  side 
He  conquer'd  with  thee. 

Harold.  No — the  childish  fist 

That  cannot  strike  again. 

Aldivyth.  Thou  art  too  kindly. 

Why  didst  thou  let  so  many  Norsemen 

hence  ? 
Thy  fierce  forekings  had  clinch'd  their 

pirate  hides 
To  the  bleak  church  doors,  like  kites 

upon  a  barn. 
Harold.  Is  there  so  great  a  need  to 

tell  thee  why } 
Aldwyth.  Yea,  am  I  not  thy  wife  ? 
Voices.  Hail,  Harold,  Aldwyth  I 

Bridegroom  and  bride  ! 

Aldwyth.  Answer  them  ! 

\To  Harold. 

Harold  {to  all).     Earls  and  Thanes! 

Full  thanks  for  your  fair  greeting  of 

my  bride ! 
Earls,    Thanes,  and   all  our  country- 
men !  the  day, 
Our  day  beside  the  Derwent  will  not 

shine 
Less  than  a  star  among  the  goldenest 

hours 
Of  Alfred,  or  of  Edward  his  great  son, 
Or  Athelstan,  or  English  Ironside 
Who  fought  with  Knut,  or  Knut  who 

coming  Dane 
Died  English.     Every  man  about  his 

king 
Fought  like  a  king ;  the  king  like  his 

own  man. 
No  better ;  one  for  all,  and  all  for  one, 
One  soul :  and  therefore  have  we  shat- 

ter'd  back 
The  hugest  wave  from  Norseland  ever 

yet 
Surged   on   us,    and    our    battle-axes 

broken 
The    Haven's  wing,   and  dumb'd  his 

carrion  croak 


646 


HAROLD. 


From  the  gray  sea  forever.     Many  are 

gone- 
Drink  to  the  dead  who  died  for  us,  the 

living 
Who  fought  and  would  have  died,  but 

happier  lived, 
If  happier  be  to  live ;  they  both  have 

life 
In  the  large  mouth  of  England,  till  her 

voice 
Die  with  the  world.     Hail — hail ! 
Morcar.  May  all  invaders  perish  like 

Hardrada ! 
All  traitors  fail  like  Tostig! 

\A.ll  drink  but  Harold. 
Aldwyth.  Thy  cup's  full ! 

Harold.  I  saw  the  hand  of  Tostig 

cover  it.  [him 

Our  dear,  dead,  traitor  brother,  Tostig, 
Reverently  we  buried.     Friends,  had  I 

been  here, 
Without  too  large  self-lauding  I  must 

hold 
The  sequel  had  been  other  than  his 

league 
With  Norway,  and  this  battle.     Peace 

be  with  him ! 
He  was  not  of  the  worst.     If  there  be 

those 
At  banquet  in  this  hall,  and  hearing 

me — 
For  there  be  those  I  fear  who  prick'd 

the  lion 
To   make   him  spring,   that   sight   of 

Danish  blood 
Might  serve  an  end  not  English — peace 

be  with  them 
Likewise,  if  they  can  be  at  peace  with 

what 
God  gave  us  to  divide  us  from  the 

wolf! 
AUhuyth  [aside  to  Harold).   Make 

not  our  Morcar  sullen :  it  is  not 

wise. 
Harold.  Hail    to    the    living    who 

fought,  the  dead  who  fell ! 
Voices,  Hail,  hail ! 
First  Thatie.  How  ran  that  answer 

which  King  Harold  gave 
To  his  dead  namesake,  when  he  ask'd 

for  England  ? 


Leofwin.  "  Seven    feet    of    English 

earth,  or  something  more, 
Seeing  he  is  a  giant !  " 

First  Thane.      Then  for  the  bastard 
Six  feet  and  nothing  more ! 

Leofwin.  Ay,  but  belike 

Thou  hast  not  learnt  his  measure. 

First  Thane.  By  St.  Edmund 

I  over-  measure  him.     Sound  sleep  to 

the  man 
Here  by  dead  Norway  without  dream 

or  dawn ! 
Second  Thane.  What,  is  he  bragging 

still  that  he  will  come 
To  thrust  our    Harold's  throne  from 

under  him  ? 
My  nurse  would  tell  me  of  a  molehill 

crying 
To  a  mountain  "  Stand  aside  and  room 

for  me  !  " 
First  Thane.  Let  him  come  1  let  him 

come.     Here's  to    him,   sink    or 

swim '  \Drinks. 

Second  Thane.  God  sink  him  ! 
First  Thane.  Cannot    hands    which 

had  the  strength 
To  shove  that  stranded  iceberg  off  our 

shores,  [sea, 

And  send  the  shatter'd  North  again  to 
Scuttle     his      cockleshell.'*      What's 

Brunanburg 
To  Stamford-bridge .?  a  war-crash,  and 

so  hard,  [Thor — 

So  loud,  that,  by  St.  Dunstan,  old  St. 
By  God,  we  thought  him  dead — but 

our  old  Thor 
Heard  his   own  thunder    again,   and 

woke  and  came 
Among  us  again,  and  mark'd  the  sons 

of  those 
Who  made  this  Britain  England,  break 

the  North : 

Mark'd  how  the  war-axe  swang, 
Heard  how  the  war-horn  sang, 
Mark'd  how  the  spear-head  sprang, 
Heard  how  the  shield-wall  rang, 
Iron  on  iron  clang, 
Anvil  on  hammer  bang — 

Second  Thane.    Hammer    on   anvil, 
hammer  on  anvil.     Old  dog, 
Thou  art  drunk,  old  dog  I 


HAROLD. 


m 


First  Thane.  Too  drunk  to  fight  with 

thee  ! 
Second  Thane.  Fight  thou  with  thine 

own  double,  not  with  me, 
Keep  that  for  Norman  William ! 
First  Thane.        Down  with  William. 
Third   Thane.   Tiie  washerwoman's 

brat! 
Fourth  Thane.  The  tanner's  bastard ! 
Fifth  Thane.  The  Falaise  byblow ! 

Enter  a  Thane,  from  Pevensey,  spat- 
ter''d  with  mud. 

Harold.         Ay,  but  what  late  guest, 

As  haggard  as  a  fast  of  forty  days, 

And  caked  and  plaster'd  with  a  hun- 
dred mires. 

Hath  stumbled  on  our  cups  ? 

Thane  from  Pevensey.  My  lord  the 
King  ! 

William  the  Norman,  for  the  wind  had 
changed — 
Harold.   I  felt  it  in   the  middle  of 
that  fierce  fight 

At    Stamford-bridge.      William    hath 
landed,  ha  ? 
Thane  from   Pevensey.    Landed   at 
Pevensey — I  am  from  Pevensey — 

Hath  wasted  all  the  land  at  Peven- 
sey— 

Hath   harried  mine  own  cattle — God 
confound  him  ! 

I  have  ridden  night  and  day  from  Pe- 
vensey— 

A  thousand  ships,  a  hundred  thousand 
men — 

Thousands  of  horses,  like    as  many 
lions 

Neighing  and  roaring  as  they  leapt  to 
land — 
Harold.    How   oft  in   coming    hast 

thou  broken  bread  ? 
Thaite  from  Pevensey.  Some  thrice, 

or  so. 
Harold.       Bring  not  thy  hoUowness 

On  our  full  feast.      Famine  is  fear, 
were  it  but 

Of  being  starved.     Sit  down,  sit  down, 
and  eat, 

And,  when  again  red-blooded,  speak 
again  ; 


{Aside.) 
The  men  that  guarded  England  to  the 

South 
Were  scatter'd  to  the  harvest.  .  .  .  No 

power  mine 
To  hold  their  force  together.  .  .  .  Many 

are  fallen 
At  Stamford-bridge.  .  .  .  The  people, 

stupid-sure, 
Sleep  like  their  swine.  ...  In  South 

and  North  at  once 
I  could  not  be. 

[Alojid.) 
Gurth,  Leofwin,  Morcar,  Edwin  ! 
{Pointing  to  the  revellers.)    The  curse 

of  England  !  these  are  drown'd  in  . 

wassail, 
And  cannot  see  the  world  but  thro' 

their  wines ! 
Leave  them  I  and  thee  too,  Aldwyth, 

must  I  leave— J 
Harsh  is  the  news !  hard  is  our  honey- 
moon ! 
Thy  pardon.    ( Turning  round  to  his  at- 
tendants.)    Break  the  banquet  up. 

...  Ye  four  ! 
And  thou,  my  carrier-pigeon  of  black 

news, 
Cram  thy  crop  full,  but  come  when 

thou  art  call'd-       {Exit  Harold. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  L  — A  TENT  ON  A 
MOUND,  FROM  WHICH  CAN 
BE  SEEN  THE  FIELD  OF 
SENLAC. 

Harold,  sitting ;  by  him  standing 
Hugh  Margot  the  Monk,  Gurth, 
Leofwin. 

Harold.  Refer  my  cause,  my  crown 

to  Rome !  .  .  .  The  wolf 
Mudded  the  brook,  and  predetermined 

all. 
Thou  hast  said  thy  say,  and   had  my 

constant  "  No  " 
For  all  but  instant  battle.    I  hear  no 

mor^. 


048 


HAROLD. 


Margot.  Hear  me  again — for  the  last 

time.     Arise, 
Scatter  thy  people  home,  descend  the 

hill, 
Lay   hands   of  full   allegiance   in   thy 

Lord's 
And   crave   his   mercy,   for   the  Holy 

Father 
Hath  given  this  realm  of  England  to 

the  Norman. 
Harold.  Then  for  the  last  time,  monk, 

I  ask  again 
When  had  the  Lateran  and  the  Holy 

Father 
To  do  with  England's  choice  of  her 

own  king .-' 
Margot.    Earl,    the    first    Christian 

Caesar  drew  to  the  East 
To  leave  the  Pope  dominion  in  the 

West.  [West. 

He  gave  him  all  the  kingdoms  of  the 

Harold.  So ! — did  he } — Earl — I  have 

a  mind  to  play 
The  William  with  thine  eyesight  and 

thy  tongue. 
Earl — ay — thou  art  but  a  messenger  of 

William. 
I  am  weary — go :  make  me  not  wroth 

with  thee  ! 
Margot.  Mock-king,  I  am  the  mes- 
senger of  God, 
His   Norman  Daniel  j    Mene,    Mene, 

Tekel ! 
Is  thy  wrath  Hell,  that  I  should  spare 

to  cry. 
Yon  heaven  is  wroth  with  thee  ?    Hear 

me  again  ! 
Our  Saints  have  moved    the  Church 

that  moves  the  world, 
And  all  the   Heavens  and  very  God: 

they  heard — 
They  know   King   Edward's   promise 

and  thine — thine. 
Harold.  Should  they  not  know  free 

England  crowns  herself  ? 
Not  know  that  he  nor  I  had  power  to 

promise  1 
Not  know  that  Edward  cancell'd  his 

own  promise .-' 
And  for  7Hy  part  therein — Back  to  that 

juggler,  {Rising. 


Tell   him   the    Saints  are  nobler  tha» 

he  dreams, 
Tell  him  that  God  is  nobler  than  the 

Saints, 
And  tell  him  we  stand  arm'd  on  Sen^ 

lac  Hill, 
And  bide  the  doom  of  God. 

Margot.  Hear  it  thro'  me. 

The  realm  for  which  thou  art  forsworn 

is  cursed, 
The  babe  enwomb'd  and  at  the  breast 

is  cursed. 
The  corpse  thou  whelmest  with  thine 

earth  is  cursed, 
The  soul  who  fighteth  on  thy  side  is 

cursed, 
The  seed  thou  sowest  in  thy  field  is 

cursed, 
The    steer  wherewith  thou  ploughest 

thy  field  is  cursed. 
The   fowl   that  fleeth  o'er  thy  field  is 

cursed. 
And  thou,  usurper,  liar — 

Harold.  Out,  beast  monk  I 

[Lifting   his  hand  to  strike  him. 
Oi^KTH  stops  the  blow. 
I  ever  hated  monks. 

Margot.  I  am  but  a  voice 

Among  you  :  murder,  martyr  me  if  ye 

will — 
Harold.  Thanks,  Gurth  !     The  sim- 
ple, silent,  honest  man 
Is  worth  a  world  of  tonguesters.     ( To 

Margot.)     Get  thee  gone  ! 
He  means  the  thing  he  says.     See  him 

out  safe. 
Leofwin.  He  hath  blown  himself  as 

red  as  fire  with  curses. 
An  honest  fool !     Follow  me,  honest 

fool, 
But  if  thou  blurt  thy  curse  among  our 

folk, 
I  know  not — I  may  give  that  egg-bald 

head 
The  tap  that  silences. 

Harold.  See  him  out  safe. 

\Exeunt  Leofwin  and  Margot. 

Gtirth,    Thou   hast  lost  thine  even 

temper,  brother  Harold ! 
Harold.  Gurth,  when  I  past  by  Wal« 

tham,  my  foundation 


HAROLD. 


649 


For  men  who  serve  the  neighbor,  not 

themselves, 
I  cast  me  down  prone,  praying ;  and, 

when  I  rose, 
They  told  me  that  the  Holy  Rood  had 

lea»i'd 
A.nd  bow'd  above  me ;   whether  that 

which  held  it 
Had  weaken'd  and  the  Rood  itself  was 

bound 
To    that    necessity    which    binds     us 

down ; 
Whether  it  bow'd  at  all  but  in  their 

fancy  ; 
Or  if  it  bow'd,  whether  it  symboll'd 

ruin 
Or  glory,  who  shall  tell  ?  but  they  were 

sad, 
And  somewhat  sadden'd  me. 

Gurth.  Yet  if  a  fear, 

Or  shadow  of  a  fear,  lest  the  strange 

Saints 
By  whom  thou  swarest  should   have 

power  to  balk 
Thy  puissance  in  this  fight  with  him 

who  made 
And  heard   thee   swear  —  brother  —  / 

have  not  sworn — 
If  the  king  fall,  may  not  the  kingdom 

fall  ? 
But  if  I  fall,  I  fall ;  and  thou  art  king  ; 
And  if  I  win,  I  win,  and  thou  art  king  ? 
Draw   thou   to   London,   there    make 

strength  to  breast 
Whatever  chance,  but  leave  this  day 

to  me. 
Leofivin   {entering).    And   waste   the 

land  about  thee  as  thou  goest, 
And   be   thy  hand  as  winter   on  the 

field, 
To  leave  the  foe  no  forage. 

Harold.  Noble  Gurth  ! 

Best  son  of  Godwin  !    If  I  fall,  I  fall— 
The  doom  of  God !     How  should  the 

people  fight 
When  the  king  flies  ?     And,  Leofwin, 

art  thou  mad  ? 
Hovy  should  the    King    of    England 

waste  the  fields 
Of  Euglaftd,   his  own  people?  —  No 

glance  yet 


Of  the  Northumbrian  helmet  on  the 

heath  1 
Leofwin.  No,  but  a  shoal  of  wives 

upon  the  heath. 
And  some  one  saw  thy  willy-nilly  nun 
Vying  a  tress  against  our  golden  fern. 
Harold.  Vying  a  tear  with  our  cold 

dews,  a  sigh 
With  these  low-moaning  heavens.    Let 

her  be  fetch'd. 
We  have  parted  from  our  wife  without 

reproach, 
Tho'  we  have  dived  thro'  all  her  prac- 
tices; 
And  that  is  well. 

Leofwin.  I  saw  her  even  now; 

She  hath  not  left  us. 
Harold.         Naught  of  Morcar  then  ? 
Gurth.  Nor  seen,  nor  heard ;  thine, 

Williaav's  or  his  own 
As  wind  blows,  or  tide  flows:  belike 

he  watches, 
If  this  war-storm  in  one  of  its  i  ough 

rolls 
Wash  up  that  old  crown  of  Northum* 

berland. 
Harold.  I  married  her  for  Morcar — 

a  sin  against 
The  truth  of  love.    Evil  for  good,  it 

seems. 
Is  oft  as  childless  of  the  good  as  evil 
For  evil. 
Leofzuin.  Good  for  good  hath  borne 

at  times 
A  bastard  false  as  William. 

Harold.  Ay,  if  Wisdom 

Pair'd  not  with  Good,    But  I  am  some- 
what worn, 
A  snatch  of  sleep  were  like  the  peace 

of  God. 
Gurth,  Leofwin,  go  once  more  about 

the  hill— 
What  did  the  dead  man  call  it— San- 

guelac. 
The  lake  of  blood  ? 

Leofwin.  A  lake  that  dips  in  Wil- 
liam 
As  well  as  Harold. 

Harold.     Like  enough.     I  have  seen 
The   trenches  dug,  the  palisades  up 

rear'd 


6So 


HAROLD. 


And  wattled  thick  with  ash  and  willow- 
wands  ; 
Yea,   wrought   at   them   myself.      Go 

round  once  more ; 
See  all  be  sound  and  whole.     No  Nor- 
man horse 
Can  shatter  England,  standing  shield 

by  shield  ; 
Tell  that  again  to  all. 

Gurth.  I  will,  good  brother. 

Harold.    Our  guardsman   hath   but 
toil'd  his  hand  and  foot, 
I  hand,  foot,  heart  and  head.     Some 
wine  ! 

[One pours  wine  into  a  goblet ,  which 
he  hands  to  Harold. 
Too  much ! 
What?  we  must  use  our  battle-axe  to- 
day. 
Our  guardsmen  have  slept  well,  since 
we  came  in .'' 
Leofwin.     Ay,    slept     and     snored. 
Your  second-sighted  man 
That  scared  the  dying  conscience  of 

the  king. 
Misheard    their    snores     for    groans. 

They  are  up  again. 
And  chanting  that  old  song  of  Brunan- 

burg 
Where  England  conquer'd. 

Harold.  That  is  well.     The  Norman, 
What  is  he  doing  ? 

Leofwin.         Praying  for  Normandy ; 
Our  scouts  have  heard  the  tinkle  of 
their  bells. 
Harold.    And    our    old    songs    are 
prayers  for  England  too ! 
But  by  all  Saints — 
Leofwin.  Barring  the  Norman  ! 

Harold.  Nay, 

Were     the     great     trumpet    blowing 

doomsday  dawn, 
I   needs   must  rest.      Call  when  the 
Norman  moves — 

[Exeunt  all  but  HAROLD. 
No  horse — thousands  of  horses — our 

shield  wall — 
Wall  —  break    it    not  —  break    not  — 
break —  {Sleeps. 

Vision  of  Edward.   Son   Harold,   I 
thy  king,  who  came  before 


To  tell   thee    thou    shouldst  win    at 

Stamford-bridge, 
Come  yet  once  more,  from  where  I  am 

at  peace. 
Because   I   loved   thee  in  my  mortal 

day,  _  [hill- 

To  tell  thee  thou  shalt  die  on  Senlac 
Sanguelac ! 

Vision  of  Wulfnoth.  O  brother,  from 

my  ghastly  oubliette 
I   send   my  voice   across   the  narrow 

seas — 
No  more,  no  more,  dear  brother,  nev- 
ermore— 
Sanguelac ! 

Vision  of  Tostig.    O   brother,   most 

unbrotherlike  to  me, 
Thou  gavest  thy  voice  against  me  in 

my  life, 
I  give  my  voice  against  thee  from  the 

grave — 
Sanguelac ! 

Vision  of  Norman  Saints.  O  hapless 

Harold  !  King  but  for  an  hour  ! 
Thou  swarest  falsely  by  our  blessed 

bones. 
We  give  our  voice  against  thee  out  of 

heaven ! 
Sanguelac!     Sanguelac!     The  arrow! 

the  arrow  I 
Harold    (starting    up,    battle-axe    in 

hand).  Away! 
My    battle-axe    against    your    voices. 

Peace  ! 
The  king's  lasf  word — "  the  arrow !  " 

I  shall  die — 
I  die  for  England  then,  who  lived  for 

England — 
What  nobler  ?  men  must  die. 
I  cannot  fall  into  a  falser  world — 
I  have  done   no  man  wrong.     Tostig, 

poor  brother, 
Art  thou  so  anger'd  ? 
Fain  had  I  kept  thine  earldom  in  thy 

hands 
Save  for  thy  wild  and  violent  will  that 

wrench'd 
All  hearts  of  freemen  from  thee.    I 

could  do 
No  other  than  this  way  advise  the 

king 


HAROLD. 


631 


Against   fhe   race  of  Godwin.      Is  it 

possible 
That   mortal   men   should   bear   their 

earthly  heats 
Into  yon  bloodless  world,  and  threaten 

us  thence 
Unschool'd    of  Death?      Thus  then 

thou  art  revenged — 
I  left  our  England  naked  to  the  South 
To  meet   thee    in   the   North.       The 

Norseman's  raid 
Hath  helpt  the  Norman,  and  the  race 

of  Godwin 
Hath  ruin'd  Godwin.     Notour  wak- 
ing thoughts 
Suffer   a    stormless    shipwreck  in  the 

pools 
Of  sullen  slumber,  and  arise  again 
Disjointed :  only  dreams — where  mine 

own  self 
Takes  part  against  myself  !       "Why  ? 

for  a  spark 
Of  self-disdain    born    in  me  when  I 

sware 
Falsely   to    him,   the  falser  Norman, 

over 
His  gilded  ark  of   mummy-saints,  by 

whom 
I  knew  not  that  I  sware, — not  for  my- 
self— 
For  England — yet  not  wholly — 

Enter  Edith. 

Edith,  Edith, 
Get  thou  into  thy  cloister  as  the  king 
Will'd  it :  be  safe  :   the  perjury-mon- 

gering  Count 
Hath  made  too  good  an  use  of  Holy 

Church 
To  break  her  close  !     There  the  great 

God  of  truth 
Fill  all  thine  hours  with  peace  ! — A  ly- 
ing devil 
Hath    haunted    me — mine    oath — my 

wife — I  fain 
Had  made  my  marriage  not  a  lie ;  I 

could  not  : 
Thou  art  my  bride !  and  thou  in  after 

years 
Praying  perchance  for  this  poor  soul 

of  mine 


In  cold,   white  cells  beneath   an  icy 

moon — 
This   memory  to   thee ! — and    this   to 

England, 
My  legacy  of  war  against  the  Pope 
From   child   to    child,    from    Pope  to 

Pope,  from  age  to  age, 
Till  the  sea  wash  her  level  with  her 

shores, 
Or  till  the  Pope  be  Christ's. 

Enter  Aldwyth. 

Aldwyth   [to   Edith).    Away  from 

him! 
Edith.  I  will  ...  I  have  not  spoken 
to  the  king 
One  word ;    and  one  I  must.     Fare- 
well !  {Going. 
Harold.     Not  yet. 
Stay. 

Edith.  To  what  use  ? 
Harold.  The  king  commands  thee, 
woman  ! 

[To  Aldwyth.) 
Have  thy  two  brethren  sent  their  forces 
in? 
Aldiuyth.  Nay,  I  fear  not. 
Harold.    Then   there's   no   force   in 
thee  !  [ear 

Thou  didst  possess  thyself  of  Edward's 
To  part  me  from  the   woman  that  I 

loved ! 
Thou  didst  arouse  the  fierce  North- 
umbrians ! 
Thou  hast  been  false  to  England  and 

to  me ! 
As  .  .  .  in  some  sort  ...  I  have  been 

false  to  thee. 
Leave  me.     No  more — Pardon  on  both 
sides — Go  ! 
Aldwyth.    Alas,   my    lord,   I   loved 

thee. 
Harold.  With  a  love 

Passing  thy  love  for  Griffyth !  where- 
fore now 
Obev  my  first  and  last  commandment 
Go! 
Aldwyth.  O  Harold  !  husband !  Shall 

we  meet  again  ? 
Harold.  After  the  battle— after  the 
battle.     Go. 


6S2 


HAROLD. 


Aldxvyth.    I   go.      [Aside.)      That  I 
could  stab  her  standing  there  ! 

\Exit  Aldwyth. 
Edith.    Alas,   my    lord,  she    loved 

thee. 
Harold.  Never  I  never! 
Edith.  I  saw  it  in  her  eyes! 
Harold.  I  see  it  in  thine. 

And  not  on  thee — nor  England — fall 
God's  doom  ! 
Edith.  On  thee  ?  on  me.     And  thou 
art  England !     Alfred 
Was  England.    Ethelred  was  nothing. 

England 
Is  but  her  king,  and  thou  art  Harold  ! 
Harold,  Edith, 

The  sign  in  heaven — the  sudden  blast 

at  sea — 
My  fatal   oath — the  dead  Saints — the 

dark  dreams — 
The    Pope's    Anathema  —  the    Holy 

Rood 
That  bow'd  to  me  at  Waltham— Edith, 

if 
I,  the  last  English  King  of  England — 
Edith.  No, 

First  of  a  line  that  coming  from  the 

people, 
And  chosen  by  the  people — 

Harold.  And  fighting  for 

And  dying  for  the  people — 

Edith.  Living  !  living  ! 

Harold.  Yea  so,  good  cheer !  thou 
art  Harold,  I  am  Edith  ! 
Look  not  thus  wan  ! 

Edith.      What  matters  how  I  look  ? 
Have  we  not  broken  Wales  and  Norse- 
land  ?  slain, 
Whose  life  was  all  one  battle,  incar- 
nate war, 
Their   giant-king,  a  mightier  man-in- 
arms 
Than  William  ? 

Harold.   Ay,  my  girl,   no   tricks   in 
him — 
No  bastard  he  !  when  all  was  lost,  he 

yell'd. 
And  bit  his  shield,  and  dash'd  on  it 

the  ground. 
And  swaying   his    two-handed  sword 
about  him, 


Two  deaths  at  every  swing,  ran  in  up^ 

on  us 
And  died  so,  and  T  loved  him  as  I  hate 
This  liar  who  made  me  liar.     If  Hate 

can  kill. 
And  Loathing  wield  a   Saxon   battle- 
axe — 
Edith,  Waste  not  thy  might  before 

the  battle ! 
Harold.     And     thou    must     hence. 
Stigand  will  see  thee  safe, 
And  so — Farewell. 

[He  is  going,  but  turns  back. 
The  ring  thou  darest  not  wear, 
I  have  had  it  fashion'd,  see,  to  meet 
my  hand. 

[Harold  shows  the  ring,  which  is 
on  his  finger. 
Farewell ! 

\He  is  going,  but  turns  back  again. 
I  am  dead  as  Death  this  day  to  aught 

of  earth's 
Save  William's  death  or  mine. 

Edith.  Thy  death  !— to-day ! 

Is  it  not  thy  birthday  ? 

Harold.  Ay,  that  happy  day  ! 

A  birthday  welcome !  hajjpy  days  and 

many ! 
One — this  !  [  They  embrace. 

Look,  I  will  bear  thy  blessing  into  th© 

battle 
And  front  the  doom  of  God. 

Norman  cries  [heard in  the  distance). 
Ha  Rou  !     Ha  Rou  ! 

Enter  GURTH. 

Gurth.  The  Norman  moves  ! 
Harold.        Harold  and  Holy  Cross/ 
[Exeunt  Harold  ajid  Gurth. 

Enter  Stigand. 
Stigand.  Our  Church  in  arms — the 

lamb  the  lion — not 
Spear  into  pruning  hook — the  countef 

way — 
Cowl,  helm;    and  crozier,  battle-axe. 

Abbot  Alfwig, 
Leofric,  and  all  the  monks  of  Peter- 

boro' 
Strike  for  the  king ;  but  I,  old  wretch, 

old  Stigand, 


HAROLD. 


^53 


With  hands  too  limp  to  brandish  iron 

— and  yet 
I  have  a  power — would  Harold  ask  me 

for  it— 
I  have  a  power. 
Edith.         What  power,  holy  father  ? 
Stigatid.  Power  now  from  Harold  to 
command  thee  hence 
And  see  thee  safe  from  Senlac. 
Edith.  I  remain  ! 

Stigand.    Yea,  so    will  I,   daughter, 
until  I  find 
Which  way  the  battle  balance.     I  can 

see  it 
From  where  we  stand:  and,  live  or  die, 

I  would 
I  were  among  them ! 

Cauofis  fro?n  Waltham  [singing  with- 
out). 

Salva  patriam 
Sancte  Pater, 
Salva  Fill, 
Salva  Spiritus, 
Salva  patriam. 
Sancta  Mater.* 

Edith.  Are  those  the  blessed  angels 

quiring,  father  ? 
Stigand.     No,     daughter,    but     the 
canons  out  of  Waltham, 
The  king's  foundation,  that  have  fol- 
low'd  him. 
Edith.  O  God  of  battles,  make  their 
wall  of  shields 
Firm  as  thy  cliffs,  strengthen  their  pal- 
isades ! 
What  is  that  whirring  sound  ? 
Stigand.  The  Norman  arrow  ! 

Edith.  Look  out  upon  the  battle — is 

he  safe  ? 
Stigand.  The  king  of  England  stands 
between  his  banners. 
He  glitters  on  the  crowning  of  the  hill. 
God  save  King  Harold  ! 

Edith.  — chosen  by  his  people, 

And  fighting  for  his  people  ! 

Stigand.  There  is  one 

Come  as   Goliath   came   of  yore — he 

flings 
His  brand  in  air  and  catches  it  again ; 
He  is  chanting  some  old  war-song. 

*  The  a  throughout  these  hymns  should  be 
sounded  broad,  as  iu  "  £<ither." 


Edith. 
To  meet  him  "i 


And  no  David 


Stigand.  Ay,  there  springs  a  Saxon 
on  him. 
Falls — and  another  falls. 

Edith.  Have  mercy  on  us  ! 

Stigand.  Lo !  our  good  Gurth  hath 

smitten  him  to  the  death. 
Edith.  So  perish  all  the  enemies  of 

Harold ! 
Canons  {singing). 

Hostisin  Angliam 

Run  praedator, 
Illoruni,  domine. 

Scutum  scindatur  1 
Hostis  per  Angliae 

Plagas  bacchalur ; 

Casa  crematur, 

Pastor  fugatur 

Grex  trucidatur — 

Stigand.  Illos  trucida,  Domine. 
Sdith.  Ay,  good  father. 

Canons  {singing). 

lUorum  scelera 
Poena  sequatur  ! 

English   Cries.    Harold    and    Holy 

Cross!    Out!  out! 
Stigand.  Our  javelins 

Answer  their  arrows.     All  the  Norman 

foot 
Are  storming  up  the  hill.     The  range 

of  knights 
Sit,  each  a  statue  on  his   horse,  and 
wait. 
English  Cries.  Harold  and  God  Al- 
mighty ! 
Norman  Cries.  Ha  Rou!    HaRou! 
Canons  {singing). 

Eques  cum  pedite 

PriEpediatur  ! 
Illorum  in  lacrymas 

Cruor  fundatur! 
»  Pereant,  pereant, 

Anglia  precatur. 

Stigand.  Look,  daughter,  look. 
Edith.  Nay,  father,  look  for  me! 

Stigand.    Our  '  axes   lighten   with  a 
single  flash 
About  the  summit  of  the  hill,  and  heads 
And  arms  are  sliver'd  off  and  splinter'd 
by 


654 


HAROLD. 


Their  lightning  —  and    they  fly  —  the 
Norman  flies. 
Edith.  Stigand,  O   father,  have   we 

won  the  day  ? 
Stigand.  No,  daughter,  no — they  fall 
behind  the  horse — 
Their  horse  are  thronging  to  the  bar- 
ricades ; 
I  see  the  gonfanon  of  Holy  Peter 
Floating  above  their  helmets — ha  !  he 
is  down ! 
Edith.  He  down  !     "Who  down  ? 
Stigand.  The  Norman  count  is  down. 
Edith.  So  perish  all  the  enemies  of 

England ! 
Stigand.  No,  no,  he  hath  risen  again 
— he  bares  his  face — 
Shouts  something — he  points  onward 

— all  their  horse 
Swallow   the   hill   locust-like,   swarm- 
ing up. 
Edith.  O  God  of  battles,  make  his 
battle-axe  keen  [heavy 

As   thine  own  sharp-dividing   justice, 
As  thine  own  bolts  that  fall  on  crime- 

ful  heads 
Charged  with  the  weight  of  heaven 
wherefrom  they  fall ! 
Canons  {singing). 

Jacta  tonitrua 

Deus  bellator  ! 
Surgas  e  tenebris, 

Sis  vindicator  ! 
Fulmina,  fulmuia 

Deus  vastator ! 

Edith.  O  God  of  battles,  they  are 
three  to  one, 
Make  thou  one  man  as  three  to  roll 
them  down  ! 
Canons  {singing). 

Equuscum  equite 

Dejiciatur ! 
Acies,  Acies 

Prona  sternatur !  j 

Illorum  lanceas 

Frange  Creator ! 

Stigand.    Yea,  yea,  for    how    their 

lances  snap  and  shiver 
Against  the  shifting  blaze  of  Harold's 

axe ! 
War-woodman  of  the  old  Woden,  how 

he  fells 


The  mortal    copse  of  faces!    There! 

and  there ! 
The  horse  and  horseman  cannot  mset 

the  shield. 
The   blow  that  brains   the   horseman 

cleaves  the  horse. 
The  horse  and  horseman  roll  along  the 

hill. 
They  fly  once  more,  they  fly,  the  Nor- 

man  flies ! 

Equus  cum  equite 
Prxcipitatur. 

Edith.  O  God,  the  God  of  truth  hath 
heard  my  cry. 
Follow  them,  follow  them,  drive  them 
to  the  sea ! 

Illorum  scelera 
Poena  sequatur ! 

Stigand.  Truth  1  no ;  a  lie  ;  a  trick,  a 
Norman  trick  ! 
They  turn  on  the  pursuer,  horse  against 

foot. 
They  murder  all  that  follow. 

Edith.  1  lave  mercy  on  us  \ 

Stigand.  Hot-headed  fools — to  burst 
the  wall  of  shields  ! 
They  have  broken  the  commandment 
of  the  king ! 
Edith.  His  oath  was  broken — O  holy 
Norman  Saints. 
Ye  that  are  now  of  heaven,  and  see  be- 
yond 
Your  Norman  shrines,  pardon  it,  par- 
don it, 
That  he  forsware  himself  for  ail  he 

loved, 
Me,  me  and  all !   Look  out  upon  the 
battle  ! 
Stigand.  They  press  again  upon  the 
barricades. 
My  sight  is  eagle,  but  the  strife  so 

thick— 
This  is  the  hottest  of  it:  hold,  ash  I 
hold,  willow  ! 
English  Cries.  Out,  out ! 
Norman  Cries.  Ha  Roul 

Stigand.  Ha  !  Gurth  hath  leapt  uoon 
him 
And  slain  him :  he  hath  fallen. 
Edith.  And  I  am  heard 


HAROLD. 


H^ 


Glory  to  God  in  the  Highest !  fallen, 
fallen  I 
Stigand.     No,    no,     his     horse — he 
mounts  another — wields 
His  war-club,  dashes  it  on  Gurth,  and 

Gurth, 
Our  noble  Gurth,  is  down ! 
Edith.  Have  mercy  on  us  ! 

Stigand.  And  Leofwin  is  down  ! 
Edith.  Have  mercy  on  us ! 

O   Thou    that    knowest,   let   not    my 

strong  prayer 
Be  weaken'd  in  thy  sight,  because  Hove 
The  husband  of  another  ! 

Norman  Cries.     Ha  Rou  !  Ha  Ron  ! 
Edith.    I   do  not  hear  our  English 

war-cry. 
Stigand.         No. 
Edith.  Look  out  upon  the  battle — is 

he  safe .'' 
Stigand.  He  stands  between  the  ban- 
ners with  the  dead 
So  piled  about  him  he  can  hardly  move. 
Edith  {takes  up  the  -ajar  cry).  Out! 

out! 
Norman  Cries.  Ha  Rou ! 
Edith  {cries  out).    Harold  and  Holy 

Cross ! 
Norman  Cries.  Ha  Rou !  Ha  Rou ! 
Edith.  What  is  that  whirring  sound  t 
Siigand.  The  Norman  sends  his 
arrows  up  to  Heaven, 
They  fall  on  those  within  the  palisade  ! 
Edith.    Look  out  upon  the  hill — is 

Harold  there  ? 
Stigand.  Sanguelac — Sanguelac — the 
arrow — the  arrow ! — away  1 


SCENE     IL  — FIELD    OF    THE 
DEAD.     NIGHT. 

Aldvvyth  and  Edith. 

Aldwyth.  O    Edith,  art  thou   here? 
O  Harold,  Harold— 
Our  Harold — we  shall  never  see  him 
more. 
Edith.    For   there   was   more    than 
sister  in  my  kiss, 
And  so  the  saints  were  wroth.     I  can- 
not love  them, 


For  they  are  Norman  saints — and  yet  I 

should — 
They  are  so  much   holier  than  their 

harlot's  son 
With  whom   they  play'd  their  game 
against  the  king ! 
Aldwyth.  The  king  is  slain,  the  king- 
dom overthrown  I 
Edith.  No  matter ! 
Aldwyth.    How  no  matter,   Harold 
slain  } — 
I  cannot  find  his  body.    O  help  m« 
thou !  [thee, 

0  Edith,   if  I   ever  wrought  against 
Forgive  me  thou,  and  help  me  here ! 

Edith.  No  matter. 

Aldwyth.  Not  help  me,  nor  forgive 

me } 
Edith.  So  thou  saidest. 

Aldwyth.  I  say  it  now,  forgive  me  I 
Edith.  Cross  me  not  1 

1  am  seeking  one  who  wedded  me  in 

secret. 
Whisper  1  God's  angels  only  know  it. 

Ha  ! 
What  art  thou  doing  here  among  the 

dead  ? 
They  are   stripping  the  dead  bodies 

naked  yonder. 
And  thou  art  come  to  rob  them  of  their 
rings! 
Aldwyth.  O  Edith,  Edith,  I  have  lost 
both  crown 
And  husband. 

Edith.  So  have  I. 

Aldwyth.  I  tell  thee  girl, 

I  am  seeking  my  dead  Harold. 

Edith,  And  I  mine  ! 

The  Holy  Father  strangled  him  with  a 

hair 
Of  Peter,  and  his  brother  Tostig  helpt ; 
The  wicked  sister  clapt  her  hands  and 

laught ; 
Then  all  the  dead  fell  on  him. 

Aldwyth.  Edith,  Edith— 

Edith.  What  was  he  like,  this  hus- 
band }  like  to  thee  ? 
Call  not  for  help  from  me.     I  knew 

him  not. 
He  lies  not  here :  not  close  beside  th« 
standard. 


655 


HAROLD. 


Here  fell  the  truest,  manliest  hearts  of 

England. 
Go  further  hence  and  find  him. 
Aldwyth.  She  is  crazed  ! 

Edith.  That  doth  not  matter  either. 

Lower  the  light, 
He  must  be  here. 

Enter  two  Canons  Osgod  and  Athel- 
RIC,  with  torches.  They  turn  over 
the  dead  bodies  and  examine  them  as 
they  pass. 

Osgod.    I  think  that  this  is  Thurkill. 
Athelric.  More  likely  Godric. 
Osgod.  I  am  sure  this  body 

Is  Alfwig,  the  king's  uncle. 

Athelric.  So  it  is ! 

No,  no — brave  Gurth,  one  gash  from 
brow  to  knee ! 
Osgod.  And  here  is  Leofwin. 
Edith.  And  here  is  He  ! 

Aldwyth.  Harold  ?     Oh  no — nay,  if 
it  were — my  God, 
They  have  so  maim'd  and  martyr'd  all 

his  face 
There  is  no  man  can  swear  to  him. 

Edith.  But  one  woman  ! 

Look  you,   we  never    mean   to    part 

again. 
I  have  found  him,  I  am  happy. 
Was  there  not  some  one  ask'd  me  for 

forgiveness  ? 
I  yield  it  freely,  being  the  true  wife 
Of  this  dead  King,  who  never  bore  re- 
venge. 

Enter  CoUNT  WILLIAM  and  WiLLlAM 
Malet. 

Wtlltam.  Who   be    these    women  ? 

And  what  body  is  this  ? 
Edith.  Harold,  thy  better  ! 
William.         Ay,  and  what  art  thou  ? 
Edith.  His  wife  "i 
Malet.  Not  true,  my  girl,  here  is  the 

Queen !     [Pointing out  A ldwyi'H. 
William  (/<?  Aldwyth).  Wast  thou 

his  Queen  } 
Aldwyth.  I  was  the  Queen  of  Wales. 
William.    Why   then    of    England. 

Madam,  fear  us  not. 


(7(7  Malet.) 
Knowest  thou  this  other  } 

Malet.         When  I  visited  England 
Some  held  she  was  Jiis  wife  in  secret- 
some — 
Well — some  believed  she  was  his  para- 
mour. 
Edith.  Norman,  thou  liest !  liars  all 
of  you. 
Your  Saints  and  all !    /am  his  wife! 

and  she — 
For  look,  our  marriage  ring! 

{She   draws   it    off  the  finger   of 
Harold. 

I  lost  it  somehow — > 
I  lost  it,  playing  with  it  when   I   was 

wild. 
That  bred  the  doubt :  but  I  am  wiser 

now  .  .  . 
I  am  too  wise  .  .  .  Will  none   among 

you  all 
Bear  me  true  witness — only  for  this 

once — 
That  I  have  found  it  here  again  ? 

[She  puts  it  on. 
And  thoi\ 
Thy  wife  am  I  forever  and  evermore, 
[Ealls  on  the  body  and  dies. 
William.   Death  ! — and    enough    of 
death  for  this  one  day. 
The  day  of  St.  Calixtus,  and  the  day, 
My  day,  when  I  was  born. 

Malet.  And  this  dead  king's, 

Who,  king  or  not,  hath  kinglike  fought 

and  fallen. 
His    birthday,    too.      It     seems    but 

yestereven 
T  held  it  with  him  in  his  English  halls, 
His  day,  with  all  his  rooftree  ringing 

"  Harold," 
Before  he  fell  into  the  snare  of  Guy  ; 
When  all  men  Counted  Harold  would 

be  king. 
And  Harold  was  most  happy. 

Williafn.  Thou  art  half  English 

Take  them  away  ! 

Malet,  I  vow  to' build  a  church  to  God 
Here  on  this   hill   of  battle ;  let  our 

high  altar 
Stand  where  their    standard    fell  .  . . 
where  these  two  lie. 


THE  REVENGE. 


^S7 


Take  them  away,  I  do  not  love  to  see 

them. 
Pluck  the  dead  woman  off  the  dead 

man,  Malet! 
Malet.  Faster  than  ivy.     Must  I  hack 

her  arms  off  ? 
How  shall  I  part  them  ? 

William.    Leave   them.     Let   them 

be! 
Bury  him  and  his  paramour  together. 
He  that  was  false   in   oath   to  me,  it 

seems 
Was  false  to  his  own  wife.     We  will 

not  give  him 
A  Christian  burial  :  yet  he  was  a  war- 
rior, 
And     wise,    yea     truthful,    till     that 

blighted  vow 
Which  God  avenged  to-day. 
Wrap  them  together  in  a  purple  cloak 
And  lay  them   both   upon   the   waste 

seashore 
At  Hastings,  there  to  guard  the  land 

for  which 
He  did  forswear  himself — a  warrior — 

ay, 
And  but  that  Holy  Peter  fought  for 

us. 
And  that  the  false  Northumbrian  held 

aloof. 
And  save  for  that  chance  arrow  which 

the  saints 
Sharpen'd  and  sent  against  him — who 

can  tell .'' — 


Three  horses  had  I  slain  beneath  me : 

twice 
I  thought  that  all   was  lost.     Since  I 

knew  battle, 
And  that  was  from  my  boyhood,  never 

yet — 
No,  by  the  splendor  of  God — have  I 

fought  men 
Like  Harold  and  his  brethcrn,  and  his 

guard  [king 

Of   English,      Every  man    about   his 
Fell  where  he  stood.     They  loved  him : 

and,  pray  God 
My  Normans  may  but  move  as  true 

with  me 
To  the  door  of  death.     Of  one  self- 
stock  at  first, 
Make  them   again   one  people — Nor- 
man, English  ; 
And   English,    Norman  ; — we    should 

have  a  hand 
To  grasp  the  world  with,  and  a  foot  to 

stamp  it.  .  .  . 
Flat.     Praise  the  Saints.    It  is  over. 

No  more  blood  ! 
I  am  King  of  Engiand,  so  they  thwart 

me  not, 
And   I    will   rule   according   to   their 

laws. 

(TT?  Aldwyth.) 
Madam,  we  will  entreat  thee  with  all 

honor. 
Ald'ivyth.   My   punishment    is  more 

than  I  can  bear. 


THE  REVENGE. 


A  BALLAD  OF  THE  FLEET,  1591. 


At  Flores  in  the  Azores  Sir  Richard  Grenville  lay, 
And  a  pinnace,  like  a  fliutter'd  bird,  game  flying  from  far  away 
"  Spanish  ships  of  war  at  sea  !  we  have  sighted  fifty-three  !  " 
Then  sware  Lord  Thomas  Howard  :  "  'Fore  God  I  am  no  coward! 
But  I  cannot  meet  ihem  here,  for  my  ships  are  out  of  gear. 
And  the  half  my  men  are  sick.     I  must  fly,  but  follow  quick. 
We  are  six  ships  of  the  line ;  can  we  fight  with  fifty-three  ?  " 


55S  THE  REVENGE. 


Then  spake  Sir  Richard  Grenville  :  "  I  know  you  are  no  coward; 

You  fly  them  for  a  moment  to  fight  with  them  again. 

But  I've  ninety  men  or  more  that  are  lying  sick  ashore 

I  should  count  myself  the  coward  if  I  left  them,  my  Lord  Howard. 

To  these  Inquisition  dogs  and  the  devildoms  of  Spain." 

III. 

So  Lord  Howard  past  away  with  five  ships  of  war  that  day, 

Till  he  melted  like  a  cloud  in  the  silent  summer  heaven ; 

But  Sir  Richard  bore  in  hand  all  his  sick  men  from  the  land 

Very  carefully  and  slow, 

Men  of  Bideford  in  Devon, 

And  we  laid  them  on  the  ballast  down  below ; 

For  we  brought  them  all  aboard, 

And  they  blest  him  in  their  pain,  that  they  were  not  left  to  Spain, 

To  the  thumbscrew  and  the  stake,  for  the  glory  of  the  Lord. 


He  had  only  a  hundred  seamen  to  work  the  ship  and  to  fight, 

And  he  sail'd  away  from  Flores  till  the  Spaniard  came  in  sight, 

With  his  huge  sea-castles  heaving  upon  the  weather  bow. 

"  Shall  we  fight  or  shall  we  fly  ? 

Good  Sir  Richard,  let  us  know, 

For  to  fight  is  but  to  die  ! 

There'll  be  little  of  us  left  by  the  time  the  sun  be  set." 

And  Sir  Richard  said  again :  "  We  be  all  good  Englishmen. 

Let  us  bang  these  dogs  of  Seville,  the  children  of  the  devil, 

For  I  never  turn'd  my  back  upon  Don  or  devil  yet." 


Sir  Richard  spoke,  and  he  laugh'd,  and  we  roared  a  hurrah,  and  so 
The  little  "  Revenge  "  ran  on  sheer  into  the  heart  of  the  foe, 
With  her  hundred  fighters  on  deck,  and  her  ninety  sick  below ; 
For  half  of  their  fleet  to  the  right  and  half  to  the  left  were  seen, 
And  the  little  "  Revenge  "  ran  on  thro'  the  long  sea-lane  between. 

VI. 

Thousands  of  their  soldiers  look'd  down  from  their  decks  and  laugh'd. 
Thousands  of  their  seamen  made  mock  at  the  mad  little  craft 
Running  on  and  on,  till  delay'd 

By  their  mountain-like  "  San  Philip  "  that,  of  fifteen  hundred  tons, 
And  up-shadowing  high  above  us  with  her  yawning  tiers  of  guns, 
Took  the  breath  from  our  sails,  and  we  stay'd. 

'vii. 

And  while  now  the  great  "  San  Philip  "  hung  above  us  like  a  cloud 
Whence  the  thunderbolt  will  fall 
Long  and  loud, 


THE  REVENGE.  659 


Four  galleons  drew  away 

From  the  Spanish  fleet  that  day, 

And  two  upon  the  larboard  and  two  upon  the  starboard  lay 

And  the  battle-thunder  broke  from  them  all. 

VIII. 

But  anon  the  great  "  San  Philip,  she  bethought  herself  and  went, 
Having  that  within  her  womb  that  had  left  her  ill-content ; 
And  the  rest  they  came  aboard  us,  and  they  fought  us  hand  to  hand, 
For  a  dozen  times  they  came  with  their  pikes  and  musqueteers, 
And  a  dozen  times  we  shook  'em  off  as  a  dog  that  shakes  his  ears 
"When  he  leaps  from  the  water  to  the  land. 

IX. 

And  the  sun  went  down,  and  the  stars  came  out  far  over  the  summer  sea, 
But  never  a  moment  ceased  the  fight  of  the  one  and  the  fifty-three. 
Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long,  their  high-built  galleons  came, 
Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long,  with  her  battle-thunder  and  flame  ; 
Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long,  drew  back  with  her  dead  and  ler  shame ; 
For  some  were  sunk  and  many  were  shatter'd,  and  so  could  fight  us  no  more- 
God  of  battles,  was  ever  a  battle  like  this  in  the  world  before  ? 


For  he  said,  "  Fight  on  !  fight  on  ! " 

Tho'  his  vessel  was  all  but  a  wreck ; 

And  it  chanced  that,  when  half  of  the  summer  night  was  gone; 

With  a  grisly  wound  to  be  drest  he  had  left  the  deck, 

But  a  bullet  struck  him  that  was  dressing  it  suddenly  dead, 

And  himself  he  was  wounded  again  in  the  side  and  the  head. 

And  he  said,  "  Fight  on  !  fight  on  1 " 


And  the  night  went  down,  and  the  suii  smiled  out  far  over  the  summer  sea. 

And  the  Spanish  fleet  with  broken  sides  lay  round  us  all  in  a  ring ; 

But  they  dared  not  touch  us  again,  for  they  fear'd  that  we  still  could  sting. 

So  they  watch'd  what  the  end  would  be. 

And  we  had  not  fought  them  in  vain, 

But  in  perilous  plight  were  we, 

Seeing  forty  of  our  poor  hundred  were  slain, 

And  half  of  the  rest  of  us  maim'd  for  life 

In  the  crash  of  the  cannonades  and  the  desperate  strife  ; 

And  the  sick  men  down  in  the  hold  were  most  of  them  stark  and  cold, 

And  the  pikes  were  all  broken  or  bent,  and  the  powder  was  all  of  it  spent; 

And  the  masts  and  the  rigging  were  lying  over  the  side  ; 

But  Sir  Richard  cried  in  his  English  pride, 

"  We  have  fought  such  a  fight  for  a  day  and  a  night 

As  may  never  be  fought  again ! 

We  have  won  great  glory,  my  men  I 

And  a  day  less  or  more 

At  sea  or  shore. 


66o  THE  REVENGE. 


We  die — does  it  matter  when  ? 

Sink  me  the  ship,  Master  Gunner — sink  her,  split  her  in  twain  ! 

Fall  into  the  hands  of  God,  not  into  the  hands  of  Spain  1 " 

XII. 

And  the  gunner  said,  "  Ay,  ay,"  but  the  seamen  made  reply: 

•'  We  have  children,  we  have  wives. 

And  the  Lord  hath  spared  our  lives. 

We  will  make  the  Spaniard  promise,  if  we  yield,  to  let  us  go; 

We  shall  live  to  fight  again  and  to  strike  another  blow  " 

And  the  lion  there  lay  dying,  and  they  yielded  to  the  foe. 


And  the  stately  Spanish  men  to  their  flagship  bore  him  then, 
Where   hey  laid  him  by  the  mast,  old  Sir  Richard  caught  at  last, 
And  they  praised  him  to  his  face  with  their  courtly  foreign  grace; 
But  he  rose  upon  their  decks,  and  he  cried : 
"  I  have  fought  for  Queen  and  Faith  like  a  valiant  man  and  true ; 
I  have  only  done  my  duty  as  a  man  is  bound  to  do  : 
With  a  joful  spirit  I,  Sir  Richard  Grenville,  die !  "  — 
And  he  fell  upon  their  decks,  and  he  died. 


And  they  stared  at  the  dead  that  had  been  so  valiant  and  true, 

And  had  holden  the  power  and  glory  of  Spain  so  cheap 

That  he  dared  her  with  one  little  ship  and  his  English  few; 

Was  he  devil  or  man  ?     He  was  devil  for  aught  they  knew, 

But  they  sank  his  body  with  honor  down  into  the  deep. 

And  they  mann'd  the  *'  Revenge  "  with  a  swarthier  alien  crew, 

And  away  she  sail'd  with  her  loss  and  long'd  for  her  own  ; 

When  a  wind  from  the  lands  they  had  ruin'd  awoke  from  sleep. 

And  the  water  began  to  heave  and  the  weather  to  moan, 

And  or  ever  that  evening  ended  a  great  gale  blew, 

And  a  wave  like  the  wave  that  is  raised  by  an  earthquake  grew, 

Till  it  smote  on  their  hulls  and  their  sails  and  their  masts  and  their  flags. 

And  the  whole  sea  plunged  and  fell  on  the  shot-shatter'd  navy  of  Spain, 

And  the  little  *'  Revenge  "  herself  went  down  by  the  island  crags 

To  be  lost  evermore  in  the  main. 


THE  DEFENCE  OF  LUCKNOW.  66 1 

THE    DEFENCE   OF  LUCKNOW. 

DEDICATORY  POEM  TO  THE  PRINCESS  ALICE. 


Dead  Princess,  living  Power,  if  that,  which  lived 

True  life,  live  on — and  if  the  fatal  kiss, 

Born  of  true  life  and  love,  divorce  thee  not 

From  earthly  love  and  lite — if  what  we  call 

The  spirit  flash  not  all  at  once  from  out 

This  shadow  into  Substance — then  perhaps 

The  mellow'd  murmur  of  the  people's  praise 

From  thine  own  State,  and  all  our  breadth  of  realni, 

Where  Love  and  Longing  dress  thy  deeds  in  light, 

Ascends  to  thee  ;  and  this  March  morn  that  sees 

Thy  Soldier-brother's  bridal  orange-bloom 

Break  thro'  the  yews  and  cypress  of  thy  grave, 

And  thine  Imperial  mother  smile  again, 

May  send  one  ray  to  thee !  and  who  can  tell — 

Thou — England's  England-loving  daughter — thou 

Dying  so  English  thou  woutdst  have  her  flag 

Borne  on  thy  CQffin — where  is  he  can  swear 

But  that  some  broken  gleam  from  our  poor  earth 

May  touch  thee,  while  remembering  thee,  I  lay 

At  thy  pale  feet  this  ballad  of  the  deeds 

Of  England,  and  her  bamier  in  the  East  ? 


Banner  of  England,  not  for  a  season,  O  banner  of  Britain,  hast  thou 
Floated  in  conquering  battle  or  flapt  to  the  battle-cry  ! 
Never  with  mightier  glory  than  when  we  had  rear'd  thee  on  high 
Flying  at  top  of  the  roofs  in  the  ghastly  siege  of  Lucknow — 
Shot  thro'  the  staff  or  the  halyard,  but  ever  we  raised  thee  anew. 
And  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our  banner  of  England  blew. 


Frail  were  the  works  that  defended  the  hold  that  we  held  with  our  lives — 

Women  and  children  among  us,  God  help  them,  our  children  and  wives! 

Hold  it  we  might — and  for  fifteen  days  or  for  twenty  at  most. 

"  Never  surrender,  I  charge  you,  but  every  man  die  at  his  post !  " 

Voice  of  the  dead  whom  we  loved,  our  Lawrence  the  best  of  the  brave : 

Cold  were  his  brows  when  we  kiss'd  him — we  laid  him  that  night  in  his  grave, 

"  Every  man  die  at  his  post!  "  and  there  hail'd  on  our  houses  and  halls 

Death  from  their  rifle-bullets,  and  death  from  their  cannon-balls, 

Death  in  our  innermost  chamber,  and  death  at  our  slight  barricade, 


662  THE  DEFENCE  OF  LUC  KNOW. 


Death  while  we  stood  with  the  musket,  and  death  while  we  stoopt  to  the  spade. 
Death  to  the  dying,  and  wounds  to  the  wounded,  for  often  there  fell 
Striking  the  hospital  wall,  crashing  thro'  it,  their  shot  and  their  shell, 
Death — for  their  spies  were  among  us,  their  marksmen  were  told  of  our  best, 
So  that  the  brute  bullet  broke  thro'  the  brain  that  could  think  for  the  rest ; 
Bullets  would  sing  by  our  foreheads,  and  bullets  would  rain  at  our  feet — 
Fire  from  ten  thousand  at  once  of  the  rebels  that  girdled  us  round — 
Death  at  the  glimpse  of  a  finger  from  over  the  breadth  of  a  street, 
Death  from  the  heights  of  the  mosque  and  the  palace,  and  death  in  the  ground! 
Mine  ?  yes,  a  mine  !     Countermine  !  down,  down  !  and  creep  thro'  the  hole  ! 
Keep  the  revolver  in  hand !     You  can  hear  him — the  murderous  mole. 
Quiet,  ah  !  quiet — wait  till  the  point  of  the  pickaxe  be  thro' ! 
Click  with  the  pick,  coming  nearer  and  nearer  again  than  before — 
Now  let  it  speak,  and  you  fire,  and  the  dark  pioneer  is  no  more 
And  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our  banner  of  England  blew. 

III. 

Ay,  but  the  foe  sprung  his  mine  many  times,  and  it  chanced  on  a  day 
Soon  as  the  blast  of  that  underground  thunderclap  echo'd  away. 
Dark  thro'  the  smoke  and  the  sulphur  like  so  many  fiends  in  their  hell- 
Cannon-shot,  musket-shot,  volley  on  volley,  and  yell  upon  yell — 
Fiercely  on  all  the  defences  our  myriad  enemy  fell. 
What  have  they  done  ?  where  is  it  ?     Out  yonder.     Guard  the  Redan  ! 
Storm  at  the  Water-gate !  storm  at  the  Bailey-gate  !  storm,  and  it  ran 
Surging  and  swaying  all  round  us,  as  ocean  on  every  side 
Plunges  and  heaves  at  a  bank  that  is  daily  drown 'd  by  the  tide — 
So  many  thousands  that  if  they  be  bold  enough,  who  shall  escape  ? 
Kill  or  be  kill'd,  live  or  die,  they  shall  know  we  are  soldiers  and  men! 
Ready!  take  aim  at  their  leaders — their  masses  are  gapp'd  with  our  grape- 
Backward  they  reel  like  the  wave,  like  the  wave  flinging  forward  again, 
Flying  and  foil'd  at  the  last  by  the  handful  they  could  not  subdue; 
And  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our  banner  of  England  blew. 


Handful  of  men  as  we  were,  we  were  English  in  heart  and  in  limb. 

Strong  with  the  strength  of  the  race  to  command,  to  obey,  to  endure. 

Each  of  us  fought  as  if  hope  for  the  garrison  hung  but  on  him ; 

Still — could  we  watch  at  all  points  ?  we  were  every  day  fewer  and  fewer 

There  was  a  whisper  among  us,  but  only  a  whisper  that  past : 

"Children  and  wives — if  the  tigers  leap  into  the  fold  unawares — 

Every  man  die  at  his  post — and  the  foe  may  outlive  us  at  last — 

Better  to  fall  by  the  hands  that  they  love,  than  to  fall  into  theirs! " 

Roar  upon  roar  in  a  moment  two  mines  by  the  enemy  sprung 

Clove  into  perilous  chasms  our  walls  and  our  poor  palisades. 

Rifleman,  true  is  your  heart,  but  be  sure  they  your  hand  be  a£  true  I 

Sharp  is  the  fire  of  assault,  better  aim'd  are  your  flank  fusilades — 

Twice  do  we  hurl  them  to  earth  from  the  ladders  to  which  they  had  cluni», 

Twice  from  the  ditch  where  they  shelter  we  drive  them  with  hand-grenades 

And  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our  banner  of  England  blew. 


THE  DEFENCE  OF  LUCKNOW.  663 


Then  on  another  wild  morning  another  wild  earthquake  out-tore 
Clean  from  our  lines  of  defence  ten  or  twelve  good  paces  or  more. 
Rifleman,  high  on  the  roof,  hidden  there  from  the  light  of  the  sun — 
One  has  leapt  up  on  the  breach,  crying  out:  "Follow  me,  follow  me!" 
Mark  him — he  falls  !  then  another,  and  him  too,  and  down  goes  he. 
Had  they  been  bold  enough  then,  who  can  tell  but  the  traitors  had  won  ? 
Boardings  and  rafters  and  doors — an  embrasure !  make  way  for  the  gun  ! 
Now  double-charge  it  with  grape  !     It  is  charged  and  we  fire,  and  they  rua 
Praise  to  our  Indian  brothers,  and  let  the  dark  face  have  his  due  ! 
Thanks  to  the  kindly  dark  faces  who  fought  with  us,  faithful  and  few, 
Fought  with  the  bravest  among  us,  and  drove  them,  and  smote  them,  and  slew 
That  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our  banner  in  India  blew. 


Men  will  forget  what  we  suffer  and  riot  what  we  do.     We  can  fight ; 

But  to  be  soldier  all  day  and  be  sentinel  all  thro'  the  night — 

Ever  the  mine  and  assault,  our  sallies,  their  lying  alarms. 

Bugles  and  drums  in  the  darkness,  and  shoutings  and  soundings  to  arns, 

Ever  the  labor  of  fifty  that  had  to  be  done  by  five, 

Ever  the  marvel  among  us  that  one  should  be  left  alive, 

Ever  the  day  with  its  traitorous  death  from  the  loopholes  around, 

Ever  the  night  with  its  coffinless  corpse  to  be  laid  in  the  ground, 

Heat  like  the  mouth  of  a  hell,  or  a  deluge  of  cataract  skies, 

Stench  of  old  offal  decaying,  and  infinite  torture  of  flies, 

Thoughts  of  the  breezes  of  May  blowing  over  an  English  field, 

Cholera,  scurvy,  and  fever,  the  wound  that  would  not  be  heal'd. 

Lopping  away  of  the  limb  by  the  pitiful-pitiless  knife, — 

Torture  and  trouble  in  vain, — for  it  never  could  save  us  a  life. 

Valor  of  delicate  women  who  tended  the  hospital  bed, 

Horror  of  women  in  travail  among  the  dying  and  dead, 

Grief  for  our  perishing  children,  and  never  a  moment  for  grief. 

Toil  and  ineffable  weariness,  faltering  hopes  of  relief, 

Havelock  baffled,  01  beaten,  or  butcher'd  for  all  that  we  knew — 

Then  day  and  night,  day  and  night,  coming  down  on  the  still-shatterd  walls 

Millions  of  musket-bullets,  and  thousands  of  cannon-balls — 

But  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our  banner  of  England  blew. 

VII. 

Hark  cannonade,  fusilade !  is  it  true  what  was  told  by  the  scout  ? 
Outram  and  Havelock  breaking  their  way  thro'  the  fell  mutineers  I 
Millions  of  musket-bullets,  and  thousands  of  cannon-balls — 
But  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our  banner  of  England  blew. 


Hark  canonade,  fusillade  !  is  it  true  what  was  told  by  the  scoui  ? 
Outram  and  Havelock  breaking  their  way  thro'  the  fell  mutineersi 
Surely  the  pibroch  of  Europe  is  ringing  again  in  our  ears ! 
All  on  a  sudden  the  garrison  utter  a  jubilant  shout, 


664 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


Ilavelock's  glorious  Highlanders  answer  with  conquering  cheers, 
Forth  from  their  holes  and  their  hidings  our  women  and  children  come  out, 
Blessing  the  wholesome  wh'te  faces  of  Havelock's  good  fusileers, 
Kissing  the  war-harden'd  hand  of  the  Highlander  wet  with  their  tears  ! 
Dance  to  the  pibroch  ! — saved  !  we  are  saved  ! — is  it  you  ?  is  it  you? 
Saved  by  the  valor  of  Havelock,  saved  by  the  blessing  of  Heaven ! 
"  Hold  it  for  fifteen  days !  "  we  have  held  it  for  eighty-seven  I 
And  ever  aloft  on  the  palace  roof  the  old  banner  of  England  blew. 


THE  LOVER'S   TALE 


The  original  preface  to  "  The  Lover's  Tale  "  states  that  it  was  composed  in  my  nineteenth 
year.  Two  only  of  the  three  parts  then  written  were  printed,  wiien,  feeling  the  imperfection  of 
the  poem,  I  withdrew  it  from  the  press.  One  of  my  friends,  however,  who,  boy-like,  admired 
the  boy's  work,  distributed  among  our  common  associates  of  that  hour  some  copies  of  these  two 
parts,  without  my  knowledge,  without  the  omissions  and  amendments  which  I  had  in  contempla- 
tion, and  marred  by  the  many  misprints  of  the  compositor.  Seeing  that  these  two  parts  have  of 
late  been  mercilessly  pirated,  and  that  what  1  had  deemed  scarce  worthy  to  live  is  not  allowed  to 
die,  may  I  not  be  pardoned  if  I  suffer  the  whole  poem  at  last  to  come  into  the  light,  accompanied 
with  a  reprint  of  the  sequel,— a  work  of  my  mature  life,—"  The  Golden  Supper  .>  " 

May,  1879. 


ARGUMENT. 

Julian,  whose  cousin  and  foster-sister,  Camilla,  has  been  wedded  to  his  friend  and  rival, 
Lionel,  endeavors  to  narrate  the  story  of  his  own  love  for  her,  and  the  strange  sequel.  He 
speaks  (in  parts  IL  and  III.)  of  having  been  haunted  by  visions  and  the  sound  of  bells,  tolling 
for  a  funeral,  and  at  last  ringing  for  a  marriage  ;  but  he  breaks  away,  overcome,  as  he  approaches 
the  Event,  and  a  witness  to  it  completes  the  tale. 


I. 


Here  far  away,  seen  from  the  topmost 

cliff, 
Filling  with  purple  gloom  the  vacan- 
cies, 
Between  the  tufted  hills,  the  sloping 

seas 
Hung   in    mid-heaven,   and   half  way 

down  rare  sails, 
White  as  white  clouds,  floated  from 

sky  to  sky. 
Oh !   pleasant  breast  of  waters,  quiet 

bay, 
Like  to  a  quiet  mind  in  the  loud  world, 
Where  the  chafed  breakers  of  the  outer 

sea 
Sank  powerless,  as  anger  falls  aside 


And  withers  on  the  breast  of  peaceful 

love  ; 
Thou  didst  receive  the  growth  of  vines 

that  iledged 
The  hills  that  watched  thee,  as  Love 

watcheth  Love,  [self 

In  thine  own  essence,  and  delight  thy- 
To  make  it  wholly  thine  on  sunny  days. 
Keep  thou  thy  name  of  "  Lover's  Bay." 

See,  sirs. 
Even  now  the   Goddess  of  the  Past, 

that  takes 
The  heart,  and  sometimes  touches  but 

one  string 
That  quivers,  and  is  silent,  and  some- 
times 
Sweeps  suddenly  all  its  half-moulder'd 

chords 


THE  LOVERS  TALE. 


66s 


To  some  old  melody,  begins  to  play 
That  air   which   pleased  her  first.     I 

feel  thy  breath ; 
I  come,  great  Mistress  of  the  ear  and 

eye : 
Thy  breath  is  of  the  pine  wood  ;  and 

tho'  years 
Have  hollow'd  out  a  deep  and  stormy 

strait 
Betwixt  the  native  land  of  Love  and 

me, 
Breathe  but  a  little  on  me,  and  the  sail 
Will  draw  me  to  the  rising  of  the  sun. 
The  lucid  chambers  of  the  morning  star, 
And  East  of  Life. 

Permit  me,  friend,  I  prithee. 

To  pass  my  hand  across  my  brows,  and 
mu.'-e 

On  those  dear  hills,  that  never  more 
will  meet 

The  sight  that  throbs  and  aches  be- 
neath my  touch. 

As  tho'  there  beat  a  heart  in  either 
eye ;  thus. 

For  when  the  outer  lights  are  darken'd 

The  memory's  vision  hath  a  keener 
edge. 

It  grows  upon  me  now — the  semicircle 

Of  dark  blue  waters  and  the  narrow 
fringe 

Of  curving  beach — its  wreaths  of  drip- 
ping green — 

Its  pale  pink  shells — the  summer-house 
aloft 

That  open'd  on  the  pines  with  doors  of 
glass, 

A  mountain  nest — the  pleasure-boat 
that  rock'd 

Light  green  with  its  own  s-^adow,  keel 
to  keel, 

Upon  the  dappled  dimplaigs  of  the 
wave, 

That  blanch'd  upon  its  side. 

O  Lo-s  O  Hope  ! 
They  come,  they  crowd  upon  me  all  at 

once — 
Moved  from  the  cloud  o^  anforgotten 

things, 
That  sometimes  on  the  horizon  of  the 

mind 


Lies  folded,  often  sweeps  athwart  in 

storm — 
Flash  upon  flash  they  lighten  thro'  me 

— days 
Of  dewy  dawning,  and  the  amber  eyes 
When  thou  and  I,  Camilla,  thou  and  I 
Were   borne   about   the  bay  or  safely 

moor'd 
Beneath    a  low-brow'd  cavern,  where 

the  tide 
Plash'd,  sapping  its  worn  ribs;  and  «jI 

without 
The  slowly  ridging  rollers  on  th^  cMffi* 
Clash'd,  calling  to  each  other,  and  thro' 

the  arch 
Down  those  loud  waters,  like  a  setting 

star, 
Mixt  with  the  gorgeous  west  the  light' 

house  shone. 
And  silver-smiling  Venus  ere  she  fell 
Would  often  loiter  in  her  balmy  blue, 
To  crown  it  with  herself. 

Here,  too,  my  love 
Waver'd  at  anchor  with  me,  when  day 

hung 
From  his  mid-dome  in  Heaven's  airy 

halls ; 
Gleams   of  the  water-circles,  as  they 

broke, 
Flicker'd  like  doubtful  smiles  about  her 

lips, 
Quiver'd  a  flying  glory  on  her  hair, 
Leapt  like  a  passing  thought  across  her 

eyes ; 
And  mine  with  one  that  will  not  pass, 

till  earth 
And   heaven  p*ss  too,  dwelt  on  my 

heaven,  a  face 
Most  starry-fair,  but  kindled  from,  with- 
in 
As 'twere  wi*:>  dawn.     She  was  dark- 

hair'd,  dark-eyed: 
Oh,  such  darJi  eyes  !  a  single  glance  of 

them 
Will  go^Trr  a  whole  life  from  birth  to 

death, 
Careless  of  all  things  else,  led  on  with 

light 
In  trances  and  in  visions :  look  at  them, 
You  lose  yourself  in  utter  ignorance  ; 


666 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


You  cannot  find  their  depth  ;  for  they 
go  back, 

And  farther  back,  and  still  withdraw 
themselves 

Quite  into  the  deep  soul,  that  evermore 

Fresh  springing  from  her  fountains  in 
the  brain. 

Still  pouring  thro',  floods  with  redund- 
ant life 

Her  narrow  portals. 

Trust  me,  long  ago 
I  should  have  died,  if  it  were  possible 
To  die  in  gazing  on  that  perfectness 
Which  I  do  bear  within  me:    I  had 

died, 
But  from  my  farthest  lapse,  my  latest 

ebb, 
Thine  image,  like  a  charm  of  light  and 

strength 
Upon  the  waters,  push'd  me  back  again 
On  these  deserted  sands  of  barren  life 
Tho'  from  the  deep  vault  where   the 

heart  of  Hope 
Fell  into  dust,   and  crumbled  in  the 

dark — 
Forgetting  how  to  render  beautiful 
Her  countenance  with  quick  and  health- 
ful blood — 
Thou    didst    not    sway  me    upward; 

could  I  perish 
While  thou,  a  meteor  of  the  sepulchre. 
Didst  swathe  thyself  all  round  Hope's 

quiet  urn 
Forever  !     He,  that  saith  it,  hath  o'er- 

stept 
The  slippery  footing  of  his  narrow  wit. 
And  fall'n  away  from  judgment.   Thou 

art  light, 
To  which   my  .spirit   leaneth   all   her 

flowers. 
And  length  of  days,  and  immortality 
Of  thought,  and  freshness  ever  self- 
renewed. 
For   Time   and  Grief  abode  too  long 

with  Life, 
And,  like  all  other  friends  i'  the  world, 

at  last 
They  grew  aweary  of  her  fellowship : 
So  Time  and  Grief  did  beckon  unto 

Death, 


And   Death  drew   nigh   and  beat  the 

doors  of  Life ; 
But  thou  didst  sit  alone  in  the  inner 

house, 
A   wakeful   portress,  and   didst  parle 

with  Death, — 
"  This  is  a  charmed  dwelling  which  I 

hold ;  " 
So  Death  gave   back,  and  would   no 

further  come. 
Yet  is  my  life  nor  in  the  present  time, 
Nor   in    the   present   place.      To   me 

alone, 
Push'd  from  his  chair  of  regal  heritage, 
The  Present  is  the  vassal  of  the  Past  ; 
So  that,  in  that  I  have  lived,  do  I  live. 
And   cannot   die,  and   am,   in   having 

been, 
A  portion  of  the  pleasant  yesterday, 
Thrust  forward  on  to-day  and  out  of 

place  ; 
A  body  journeying  onward,  sick  with 

toil, 
The  weight  as  if  of  age  upon  my  limbs, 
The  grasp  of  hopeless  grief  about  my 

heart,  [that, 

And  all  the  senses  weaken'd,  save  in 
Which  long  ago  they  had  glean'd  and 

garner'd  up 
Into  the  granaries  of  memory — 
The  clear  brow,  bulwark  of  the  precious 

brain, 
Chink'd  as  you  see,  and  secm'd — and 

all  the  while 
The  light  soul  twines  and  mingles  with 

the  growths 
Of  vigorous  early  days,  attracted,  won, 
Married,  made   one  with,  molten  into 

all 
The  beautiful  in  Past  of  act  or  place. 
And  like  the  all-enduring  camel,  driven 
Far  from  the  diamond  fountain  by  the 

palms, 
Who  toils  across  the  middle  moon-lit 

nights, 
Or  when  the  white  heats  of  the  blind- 
ing noons 
Beat  from  the  concave  sand;  yet  in 

him  keeps 
A  draught  of  that  sweet  fountain  that 

he  loves, 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


667 


To  stay  his  feet  from  falling,  and  his 

spirit 
From  bitterness  of  death. 

Ye  ask  me,  friends, 
Wlien  I  began  to  -love.     How  should  I 

tell  you  ? 
Or  from  the  after-fulness  of  my  heart. 
Flow  back  again  unto  my  slender  spring 
And  first  of  love,  tho'  every  turn  and 

depth 
Between  is  clearer  in  my  life  than  all 
Its  present  flow.     Ye  know  not  what 

ye  ask.  [tell 

How  should  the  broad  and  open  flower 
What  sort  of  bud  it  was,  when,  prest 

together 
In  its  green  sheath,  close-lapt  in  silken 

folds. 
It  seem'd  to  keep  its  sweetness  to  it- 
self, 
Yet  was  not  the  less  sweet  for  that  it 

seem'd  ? 
For  young  Life  knows  not  when  young 

Life  was  born, 
But  takes  it  all  for  granted:  neither 

Love, 
Warm  in  the  heart,  his  cradle,  can  re- 
member 
Love  in  the  womb,  hut  resteth  satisfied. 
Looking  on  her  that   brought   him  to 

the  light : 
Or  as  men  know  not  when  they  fall 

asleep 
Into  delicious  dreams,  our  other  life. 
So  know  I  not  when  I  began  to  love. 
This  is  my  sum  of  knowledge — that  my 

love 
Grew  with  myself — say  rather,  was  my 

growth. 
My  inward  sap,  the  hold  I  have  on 

earth, 
My  outward  circling  air  wherewith  I 

breathe, 
Which  yet  upholds  my  life,  and  ever- 
more 
Is  to  my  daily  life  and  daily  death: 
For  how  should  I  have  lived  and  not 

have  loved  ? 
Can  ye  take  off  the  sweetness  from  the 

flower, 


The  color  and  the  sweetness  from  the 

rose. 
And  place  them  by  themselves ;  or  set 

apart 
Their    motions    and   their   brightness 

from  the  stars, 
And  then  point  out  the  flower  or  the 

star  ? 
Or  build  a  wall  betwixt  my  life  and 

love, 
And  tell  me  where  I  am  ?     'Tis  even 

thus: 
In  that  I  live  I  love;  because  I  love 
I   live:    whaie'er   is    fountain  to   the 

one 
Is  fountain  to  the  other;   and  when- 
e'er 
Our    God  unknits  the   riddle  of  the 

one. 
There  is  no  shade  or  fold  of  mystery 
Swathing  the  other. 

Many,  many  years 

(For  they  seem  many  and  my  most  of 
life, 

And  well  I  could  have  linger'd  in  that 
porch. 

So  unproportion'd  to  the  dwelling- 
place), 

In  the  May  dews  of  childhood,  oppo- 
site 

The  flush  and  dawn  of  youth,  we  lived 
together, 

Apart,  alone  together  on  those  hills. 

Before   he  saw  my  day  my  father 

died. 
And  he  was  happy  that  he  saw  it  not ; 
But  I  and  the  first  daisy  on  his  grave 
From  the  same  clay  came  into  light  at 

once. 
As  Love  and  I  do  number  equal  years, 
So  she,  my  love,  is  of  an  age  with 

me. 
How  like  each  other  was  the  biith  of 

each ! 
On  the  same  morning,  almost  the  same 

hour. 
Under  the  selfsame  aspect  of  the  stars 
(O  falsehood  of  all  starcraft !),  we  were 

born.  [each ! 

How  like  each  other  was  the  birth  of 


668 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE, 


The    sister   of   my   mother — she    that 

bore 
Camilla    close    beneath    her    beating 

heart, 
Which  to  the  imprison'd  spirit  of  the 

child, 
With   its   true-touched   pulses  in  the 

flow 
And  hourly  visitation  of  the  blood. 
Sent  notes  of  preparation  manifold, 
And  mellow'd    echoes  of    the    outer 

world — 
My    mother's    sister,  mother    of    my 

love. 
Who  had  a  two-fold  claim   upon   my 

heart. 
One  twofold  mightier  than  the  other 

was, 
In  giving  so  much  beauty  to  the  world, 
And  so  much  wealth  as    God    hath 

charged  her  with — 
Loathing  to  put  it  from  herself  for- 
ever. 
Left  her  own  life  with  it ;  and  dying 

thus, 
Crown'd    with    her    highest    act    the 

placid  face  [past. 

And  breathless  body  of  her  good  deeds 

So  we  were  born,  so  orphan'd.     She 

was  motherless 
And   I   without  a  father.      So    from 

each 
Of  those  two  pillars  which  from  earth 

uphold 
Our  childhood,  one  had  fallen  away, 

and  all 
The  careful  burden  of  our  tender  years 
Trembled   upon   the   other.     He  that 

gave 
Her  life,  to  me  delightedly  fulfill'd 
All  loving  kindnesses,  all  offices 
Of  watchful  care  and  trembling  tender- 
ness. 
He   waked  for  both:    he   pray'd  for 

both :  he  slept 
Dreaming  of  both:  nor  was  his  love 

the  less 
Because  it  was  divided,  and  shot  forth 
Boughs  on  each  side,  laden  with  whole 

some  shade. 


Wherein  we  nested  sleeping  or  awake, 
And  sang  aloud  the  matin-song  of  life, 

She   was  my  foster-sister:    on  one 

arm 
The  flaxen  ringlets  of  our  infancies 
Wander'd,  the    while  we  rested  ;  one 

soft  lap 
Pillovv'd  us  both:  a  common  light  of 

eyes 
Was  on  us  as  we  lay:  our  baby  lips, 
Kissing  one   bosom,  ever   drew  from 

thence 
The   stream  of  life,  one   stream,  one 

life,  one  blood. 
One  sustenance,  which,  still  as  thought 

grew  large. 
Still  larger  moulding  all  the  house  of 

thought. 
Made  all  our  tastes  and  fancies  like, 

perhaps — 
All — all  but  one ;  and  strange  to  me, 

and  sweet. 
Sweet  thro'  strange  years  to  know  that 

whatsoe'er 
Our  general   mother    meant    for    me 

alone. 
Our  mutual  mother  dealt  to  both  of 

us: 
So  what  was  earliest  mine  in  earliest 

life, 
I  shared  with  her  in  whom  myself  re- 
mains. 

As  was  our  childhood,  so  our  in- 
fancy, 
They  tell  me,  was  a  very  miracle 
Of  fellow-feeling  and  communion. 
They  tail  me  that  we  would  not  be 

alone — 
We  cried  when  we  were  parted ;  when 

I  wept. 
Her  smile  lit  up  the  rainbow  on  my 

tears, 
Staid  on  the  cloud  of  sorrow ;  that  we 

loved 
The   sound    of    one   another's   voices 

more 
Than  the  gray  cuckoo  loves  his  name, 

and  learnt 
To  lisp  in  tune  together ;  that  we  slept 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


C69 


In  the  same  cradle  always,  face  to 
face, 

Heart  beating  time  to  heart,  lip  press- 
ing lip, 

Folding  each  other,  breathing  on  each 
other, 

Dreaming  together  (dreaming  of  each 
other 

Thev  should  have  added),  till  the 
morning  light 

Sloped  thro'  the  pines,  upon  the  dewy 
pane 

Falling,  unseal'd  our  eyelids,  and  we 
woke 

To  gaze  upon  each  other.  If  this  be 
true. 

At  thought  of  which  my  whole  soul 
languishes 

And  faints,  and  hath  no  pulse,  no  breath 
— as  tho' 

A  man  in  some  still  garden  should  in- 
fuse 

Rich  attar  in  the  bosom  of  the  rose, 

Till,  drunk  with  its  own  wine,  and 
overfull 

Of  sweetness,  and  in  smelling  of  it- 
self, 

It  fall  on  its  own  thorns — if  this  be 
true, — 

And  that  way  my  wish  leads  me  ever- 
more 

ijtill  to  believe  it,  'tis  so  sweet  a 
thought, — 

Why  in  the  utter  stillness  of  the  soul 

Doth  question'd  memory  answer  not, 
nor  tell 

Of  this  our  earliest,  our  closest-drawn, 

Most  loveliest,  earthly-heavenliest  har- 
mony ? 

O   blossom'd  portal   of  the  lonely 

house, 
Green  prelude,   April    promise,  glad 

new-year 
Of  Being,  which  with  earliest  violets 
And    lavish    carol    of    clear-throated 

larks 
Fill'd  all   the   March  of  life !— I  will 

not  speak  of  thee  ; 
These  have  not  seen  thee,  these  can 

never  know  thee, 


They  cannot  understand  me.    Pass  we 

then 
A  term  of  eighteen  years.     Ye  would 

but  laugh 
If  I  should  tell  ycu  how  I  hoard  in 

thought 
The  faded  rhymes  and  scraps  of  an- 
cient crones, 
Gray  relics  of  the   nurseries  of    the 

world. 
Which  are  as  gems  set  in  my  memory, 
Because  she  learnt  them  with  me ;  or 

what  use 
To  know  her  father  left  us  just  before 
The  daffodil  was  blown  ?  or  how  we 

found 
The  dead  man  cast  upon  the  shore  ? 

All  this 
Seems  to  the  quiet  daylight  of  your 

minds 
But  cloud  and  smoke,  and  in  the  dark 

of  mine 
Is  traced  with  flame.     Move  with  me 

to  the  event. 

There  came  a  glorious  morning,  such 

a  one 
As  dawns  but  once  a  season.     Mer- 
cury 
On  such  a  morning  would  have  flung 

himself 
From  cloud  to  cloud,  and  swum  with 

balanced  wings 
To  some  tall  mountain :  when  I  said 

to  her, 
"A  day  for  gods  to  stoop,"  she  an 

swered,  "Ay, 
And  men  to  soar  : "  for  as  that  other 

gazed. 
Shading    his    eyes  till    all    the    fiery 

cloud. 
The  prophet  and  the  chariot  and  the 

steeds, 
Suck'd  into  oneness  like  a  little  star 
Were  drunk  into  the  inmost  blue,  wo 

stood. 
When  first  we  came  from  out  the  pines 

at  noon. 
With  hands  for  eaves,  uplooking  and 

almost 
Waiting  to  see  some  blessed  shape  in 

heaven. 


670 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


So  bathed  we  were  in  brilliance.   Never 

yet 
Before    or    after  have   I   known    the 

spring 
Pour  with  such  sudden  deluges  of  light 
Into  the  middle  summer ;  for  that  day, 
Love,    rising,   shook    his    wings,   and 

charged  the  winds 
With  spiced  May-sweets  from  bound 

to  bound,  and  blew 
Fresh  fire   into    the    sun,   and    from 

within 
Burst  thro'  the  heated  buds,  and  sent 

his  soul 
Into  the  songs  of  birds,  and  touch'd 

far  off 
His  mountain-altars,  his  high  hills,  with 

flame 
Milder  and  purer. 

Thro'  the  rocks  we  wound : 
The    great    pine    shook    with   lonely 

sounds  of  joy 
That  came  on  the  sea-wind.    As  moun- 
tain streams 
Our  bloods   ran  free:    the    sunshine 

seem'd  to  brood 
More  warmly  on  the  heart  than  on  the 

brow. 
We  often  paused,  and,  looking  back, 

we  saw 
The  clefts  and  openings  in  the  moun- 
tains fill'd 
With  the  blue  valley  and  the  glistening 

brooks, 
And  all  the  low  dark  groves,  a  land  of 

love ! 
A  land  of  promise,  a  land  of  memory, 
A  land   of  promise   flowing  with   the 

milk 
And  honey  of  delicious  memories ! 
And  down  to  sea,  and  far  as  eye  could 

ken. 
Each  way  from  verge  to  verge  a  Holy 

Land. 
Still  growing  holier  as  you  near'd  the 

bay, 
For  there  the  Temple  stood. 

When  we  had  reach'd 
The  grassy  platform  on  some  hill,  I 

stoop'd,  [brows 

I  gather'd  the  wild  herbs,  and  for  her 


And  mine  made  garlands  of  the  selfc 

same  flower. 
Which  she  took  smiling,  and  with  my 

work  thus 
Crown'd  her  clear  forehead.     Once  or 

twice  she  told  me 
(For   I  remember    all  things)   to  let 

grow 
The  flowers  that  run  poison  in  their 

veins. 
She  said.   "The  evil   flourish  in  the 

world." 
Then  playfully  she  gave  herself  the 

lie — 
"  Nothing  in  nature  is  unbeautiful ; 
So,   brother,    pluck,   and   spare  not."' 

So  I  wove 
Ev'n    the    dull-blooded    poppy-stem, 

*'  whose  flower, 
Hued  with  the  scarlet  of  a  fierce  sun- 
rise. 
Like   to   the  wild  youth    of    an  evil 

prince, 
Is  without  sweetness,  but  who  crowns 

himself 
Above  the  secret  poisons  of  his  heart 
In  his  old  age."     A  graceful  thought  of 

hers 
Grav'n  on  my  fancy!    And  oh,  how 

like  a  nymph, 
A  stately  mountain  nymph,  she  look'd ! 

how  native 
Unto  the  hills  she  trod  on  !     While  I 

gazed, 
My  coronal  slowly  disentwined  itself 
And  fell  between  us  both;  tho'  while  I 

gazed 
My  spirit  leap'd  as  with  those  thrills  of 

bliss 
That  strike  across  the  soul  in  prayer, 

and  show  us 
That  we  are  surely  heard.     Methought 

a  light 
Burst  from  the  garland  I  had  wov"n, 

and  stood 
A  solid  glory  on  her  bright  black  hair; 
A   light   methought    broke    from   her 

dark,  dark  eyes. 
And  shot  itself  into  the  singing  winds: 
A  mystic  light  flasb'd  ev'n  from  hoi 

white  robe 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


67^ 


As  from  a  glass  in  the  sun,  and  fell 

about 
My  footsteps  on  the  mountains. 

Last  we  came 
To  what  our  people  call  '•  The  Hill  of 

Woe." 
A  bridge  is  there,  that  look'd  at  from 

beneath, 
Seems  but  a  cobweb  filament  to  link 
The  yawning  of  an  earthquake-cloven 

chasm, 
And  thence  one  night,  when  all  the 

winds  were  loud, 
A  woful  man  (for  so  the  story  went) 
Had  thrust  his  wife  and   child  and 

dash'd  himself 
Into  the  dizzy  depth  below.     Below, 
Fierce  in  the  strength  of  far  descent,  a 

stream 
Flies  with  a  shatter'd  foam  along  the 

chasm. 

The  path  was  perilous,  loosely  strewn 

with  crags : 
We  mounted  slowly;  yet  to  both  there 

came 
The  joy  of  life  in  steepness  overcome, 
And  victories  of  ascent,  and  looking 

down 
On  all  that  had  look'd  down  on  us; 

and  joy 
In    leathing  nearer  heaven ;  and  joy 

to  me, 
High  over  all  the  azure-circled  earth, 
To  breathe  with  her  as  if  in  heaven  it- 
self; 
And  more  than  joy  that  I  to  her  be- 
came 
Her  guardian   and  her  angel,  raising 

her 
Still   higher,  past  all  peril,  until  she 

saw 
Beneath  her  feet  the  region  far  away, 
Beyond  the  nearest  mountain's  bosky 

brows. 
Burst  into  open  prospect — heath  and 

hill, 
And  hollow  lined  and  wooded  to  the 

lips. 
And  steep-down  walls  of  battlemented 

rock 


Gilded  with  broom,  or  shatter'd  into 

spires, 
And  glory  of  broad  waters  interfused, 
Whence   rose  as   it   were  breath  and 

steam  of  gold. 
And  over  all  the  great  wood  rioting 
And  climbing,  streak'd  or  starr'd  at 

intervals 
With  falling  brook  or  blossom'd  bush 

— and  last. 
Framing  the  mighty  landscape  to  the 

west, 
A  purple  range  of  mountain-cones,  be- 
tween 
Whose  interspaces  gush'd  in  blinding 

bursts 
The  incorporate  blaze  of  sun  and  sea. 

At  length 
Descending  from  the  point  and  stand- 
ing both. 
There  on  the  tremulous  bridge,  that 

from  beneath 
Had  seem'd  a  gossamer  filament  up  in 

air, 
We  paused  amid  the  splendor.    All 

the  west 
And  e'en  unto  the  middle  south  was 

ribb'd 
And  barr'd  with  bloom  on  bloom.  The 

sun  below. 
Held  for  a    space   'twixt  cloud   and 

wave,  shower'd  down 
Rays  of  a  mighty  circle,  weaving  over 
That   various   wilderness   a  tissue   of 

light 
Unparallel'd.     On  the  other  side,  the 

moon. 
Half  melted  into  thin  blue  air,  stood 

still 
And  pale  and  fibrous   as   a  wither'd 

leaf, 
Nor  yet  endured  in  presence   of  His 

eyes 
To  indue   his  lustre ;    most  unlover- 

like, 
Since  in  his  absence  full  of  light  and 

And  giving  light  to  others.     But  this 

most. 
Next  to  her  presence  whom  I  loved  so 

well. 


672 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


Spoke   loudly    even   into  my    inmost 

heart 
As  to  my  outward  hearing  :  the  loud 

stream, 
Forth  issuing  from  his  portals  in  the 

crag 
(A  visible  link  unto   the  home  of  my 

heart), 
Ran  amber  toward  the  west,  and  nigh 

the  sea 
Parting  my  own  loved  mountains  was 

received, 
Shorn  of  its  strength,  into  the  sym- 
pathy 
Of  that  small  bay,  which  out  to  open 

main 
Glow'd  intermingling  close  beneath  the 

sun. 
Spirit  of  love !    that  little   hour  was 

bound 
Shut  in  from  Time,  and  dedicate  to 

thee  : 
Thy  fires  from  heaven  had  touched  it, 

and  the  earth 
They  fell  on  became  hallow'd  ever- 
more. 

We  turn'd :    our    eyes    met :    hers 

were  bright,  and  mine 
Were  dim  with  floating  tears,  that  shot 

the  sunset 
In  lightnings  round  me ;  and  my  name 

was  borne 
Upon  her    breath.       Henceforth  my 

name  has  been 
A  hallow'd  memory  like  the  names  of 

old, 
A  centred,  glory-circled  memory. 
And  a  peculiar  treasure,  brooking  not 
Exchange   or   currency  :   and  in   that 

hour 
A  hope  flowed  round  me,  like  a  golden 

mist 
Tharm'd   amid    eddies    of  melodious 

airs, 
A  moment,  ere  the  onward  whirlwind 

shatter  it, 
Waver'd  and  floated — which  was  less 

than  Hope, 
Because  it  lack'd  the  power  of  rerfect 

Hope ; 


But  which  was  more  and  higher  than 

all  Hope, 
Because    all    other   Hope   had  lower 

aim  ; 
Even  that  this  name  to  which  her  gra« 

cious  lips 
Did   lend   such  gentle  utterance,  this 

one  name, 
In  some  obscure  hereafter,  might  in- 

wreathe 
(How  lovelier,  nobler  then!)  her  life, 

her  love, 
With  my  life,  love,   soul,  spirit,  and 

heart  and  strength. 

"Brother,"  she  said,  "let  this  be 

call'd  henceforth 
The  Hill  of  Hope ;  "  and  I  replied,  "O 

sister, 
My  will  is  one  with  thine ;  the  Hill  of 

Hope." 
Nevertheless,  we  did  not  change   the 

name. 

I  did  not  speak ;  I  could  not  speak 

my  love. 
Love  lieth  deep:  Love  dwells  not  in 

lip-depths. 
Love  wraps  his  wings  on  either  side 

the  heart, 
Constraining  it  with  kisses  close  and 

warm, 
Absorbing   all   the   incense    of  sweet 

thoughts 
So  that  they  pass  not  to  the  shrine  of 

sound. 
Else    had  the   life    of  that   delighted 

hour 
Drunk  in   the  largeness  of  the  utter- 
ance 
Of   Love ;    but    how    should   Earthly 

measure  mete 
The    Heavenly-unmeasured   or  unlim- 
ited Love, 
Who  scarce  can  tune  his  high  majestic 

sense 
Unto  the  thunder-song  that  wheels  the 

spheres. 
Scarce  living  in  the  ^olian  harmony, 
And  flowing  odor  of  the  spacious  air, 
Scarce  housed  within  the  circle  of  thi« 

Earth, 


TB,E  LOVER'S  TALE. 


^n 


Be  cabined  up  in  words  and  syllables, 
Which  pass  with  that  which  breathes 

them  ?     Sooner  Earth 
Might    go    round    Heaven,   and    the 

straight  girth  of  Time 
Inswathe  the  fulness  of  Eternity, 
Than  language  grasp  the   infinite  of 

Love 

O  day  whic-  did  enwomb  that  happy 
hour,  ^  [day ! 

Thou  art  blessed  in  the  years,  divinest 

O  Genius  of  that  hour  which  dost  up- 
hold 

Thy  coronal  of  glory  like  a  God, 

Amid  thy  melancholy  mates  far-seen, 

Who  walk  before  thee,  ever  turning 
round 

To  gaze  upon  thee  till  their  eyes  are 
dim 

With  dwelling  on  the  light  and  depth 
of  thine. 

Thy  name  is  ever  worshipped  among 
hours  ! 

Had  I  died  then,  I  had  not  seem'd  to 
die, 

For  bliss  stood  round  me  like  the  light 
of  Heaven — 

Had  I  died  then,  I  had  not  known  the 
death ; 

Yea  had  the  Power  from  whose  right 
hand  the  light 

Of  Life  issueth,  and  from  whose  left 
hand  floweth 

The  shadow  of  Death,  perennial  efflu- 
ences. 

Whereof  to  all  that  draw  the  whole- 
some air 

Somewhile  the  one  must  overflow  the 
other ; 

Then  had  he  stemm'd  my  day  with 
night,  and  driven 

My  current  to  the  fountain  whence  it 
sprang,— 

Even  his  own  abiding  excellence — 

On  me,  methinks,  that  shock  of  gloom 
had  fall'n 

Unfelt,  and  in  this  glory  I  had  merged 

The  other,  like  the  sun  I  gazed  upon, 

Which  seeming  for  the  moment  due  to 
death, 


'  And  dipping  his  head  low  beneath  the 
j  verge, 

Yet  bearing  round  about  him  his  own 

day. 
In  confidence  of  unabated  strength, 
Steppeth   from    Heaven   to    Heaven, 

from  light  to  light. 
And  holdeth  his  undimmed  forehead 

far 
Into  a  clearer  zenith,  pure  of  cloud. 

We  trod  the  shadow  of  the  down- 
ward hill ; 

We  past  from  light  to  dark.  On  the 
■  other  side 

Is  scoop'd  a  cavern  and  a  mountain 
hall, 

Which  none  have  fathom'd.  If  you 
go  far  in 

(The  country  poople  rumor)  you  may 
hear 

The  moaning  of  the  woman  and  the 
child. 

Shut  in  the  secret  chambers  of  the 
rock. 

I  too  have  heard  a  sound— perchance 
of  streams 

Running  far  on  within  its  inmost  halls. 

The  home  of  darkness ;  but  the  cav- 
ern-mouth, 

Half  overtrailed  with  a  wanton  weed, 

Gives  birth  to  a  brawling  brook,  that 
passing  lightly 

Adown  a  natural  stair  of  tangled  roots, 

Is  presently  received  in  a  sweet  grave 

Of  eglantines,  a  place  of  burial 

Far  lovelier  than  its  cradle  ;  for  unseen 

But  taken  with  the  sweetness  of  the 
place. 

It  makes  a  constant  bubbling  melody 

That  drowns  the  nearer  echoes.  .Lower 
down 

Spreads  out  a  little  lake,  that,  flooding, 
leaves 

Low  banks  of  yellow  sand ;  and  from 
the  woods 

That  belt  it  rise  three  dark,  tall  cy- 
presses,— 

Three  cypresses,  symbols  of  mortal 
woe. 

That  men  plant  over  graves. 


674 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


Hither  we  came, 
And  sitting  down  upon  the  golden  moss, 
Held   converse    sweet   and   low — low 

converse  sweet, 
In  which  our  voices   bore  least  part. 

The  wind 
Told  a  love  tale  beside  us,  how  he 

woo'd 
The  waters,  and  the  waters  answering 

lisp'd 
To  kisses  of  the  wind,  that,  sick  with 

love, 
Fainted  at  intervals,  and  grew  again 
To  utterance  of  passion.     Ye  cannot 

shape 
Fancy  so  fair  as  i&  this  memory. 
Methought  all  excellence  that  ever  was 
Had  drawn  herself  from  many  thou- 
sand years. 
And  all   the  separate   Edens  of   this 

Earth, 
To  centre  in  this  place  and  time.     I 

listen'd, 
And  her  words  stole  with  most  pre- 
vailing sweetness 
Into  my  heart,  as  thronging  fancies 

come 
To  boys  and  girls  when  summer  days 

are  new, 
And  soul  and  heart  and  body  are  all 

at  ease : 
"What  marvel  my  Camilla  told  me  all  ? 
It  was  so  happy  an  hour,  so  sweet  a 

place, 
And  I  was  as  the  brother  of  her  blood, 
And  by  that  name  I  moved  upon  her 

breath ; 
Dear  name,  which  had  too  much  of 

nearness  in  it 
And  heralded  the  distance  of  this  time! 
At  first  her  voice  was  very  sweet  and 

low, 
As  if  she  were  afraid  of  utterance  ; 
But  in    the    onward   current    of  her 

speech 
(As     echoes     of    the    hollow-banked 

brooks 
Are  fashioned  by  the  channel  which 

they  keep). 
Her  words  did  '■«£  their  meaning  bor- 
row sound. 


Her  cheek  did  catch  the  color  of  hei 

words. 
I  heard  and  trembled,  yet  I  could  but 

hear; 
My  heart  paused — my  raised  eyelids 

would  not  fall. 
But  still  I  kept  my  eyes  upon  the  sky. 
I  seem'd  the  only  part  of  Time  stood 

still, 
And  saw  the    motion    of    all    other 

things ; 
While  her  words,  syllable  by  syllable. 
Like   water,  drop  by  drop,  upon  my 

ear 
Fell ;  and  I  wish'd,  yet  wish'd  her  not 

to  speak ; 
But  she  spake  on,  for  I  did  name  no 

wish. 
What  marvel  my  Camilla  told  me  all 
Her   maiden   dignities   of    Hope   and 

Love — 
"  Perchance,"    she    said,   "  return'd." 

Even  then  the  stars 
Did   tremble   in   their    stations    as   I 

gazed : 
But  she  spake  on,  for  I  did  name  no 

wish. 
No   wish — no   hope.     Hope   was   not 

wholly  dead. 
But  breathing  hard  at  the  approach  of 

Death,— 
Camilla,  my  Camilla,  who  was  mine 
No   longer   in   the   dearest    sense    of 

mine — 
For  all  the  secret  of  her  inmost  heart 
And  all  the   maiden    empire   of   her 

mind, 
Lay  like  a  map  before  me,  and  I  saw 
There,  where  I  hoped  myself  to  reign 

as  king. 
There,  where  that  day  I  crown  d  my-. 

self  as  king, 
There  in  my  realm  and  even  on  my 

throne. 
Another !      Then  it   seem'd  as  tho'  a 

link 
Of  some  tight  chain  within  my  inmost 

frame  [not 

Was  riven  in  twain  :  that  life  I  heeded 
Flow'd  from  me,  and  the  darkness  of 

the  grave. 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


f>7S 


The  darkness  of  the  grave  and  utter 

night, 
Did  swallow  up  my  vision ;    at  her 

feet, 
Even  the  feet  of  her  I  loved,  I  fell, 
Smit    with    exceeding    sorrow    unto 

Death. 

Then  had  the    earth    beneath  me 

yawning  cloven 
With  such  a  sound  as  when  an  iceberg 

splits 
From  cope  to  base — had  Heaven  from 

all  her  doors. 
With  all  her  golden  thresholds  clash- 
ing, roll'd 
Her  heaviest  thunder — I  had  lain  as 

dead, 
Mute,  blind,  and  motionless  as  then  I 

lay; 
Dead,  for  henceforth  there  was  no    ife 

for  me ! 
Mute,  for  henceforth  what  use   were 

words  to  me ! 
Blind,  for  the  day  was  as  the  night  to 

me  ! 
The  night  to  me  was  kinder  than  the 

day; 
The  night  in  pity  took  away  my  day, 
Because    my  grief  as  yet  was  newly 

born 
Of  eyes  too  weak  to  look  upon  the 

light; 
And  thro'  the  hasty  notice  of  the  ear 
Frail  Life  was  startled  from  the  tender 

love 
Of  him  she  brooded  over.     Would  I 

had  lain 
Until  the  plaited  ivy-tress  had  wound 
Round  my  worn  limbs,  and  the  wild 

brier  had  driven 
Its  knotted  thorns  thro'  my  unpaining 

brows, 
Leaning  its  roses  on  my  faded  eyes. 
The  wind  had  blown  above  me,  and 

the  rain 
Had  fall'n  upon  me,  and  the  gilded 

snake 
Had  nestled  in  the  bosom-throne  of 

Love, 
But  I  had  been  at  rest  for  evermore. 


Long  time  entrancement  held  me. 

All  too  soon 
Life  (like  a  wanton  too-officious  friend, 
Who  will   not  hear  denial,  vain   and 

rude 
With  proffer  of  unwished-for  services) 
Entering  all  the  avenues  of  sense 
Past  thro'  into  his  citadel,  the  brain. 
With  hated  warmth  of  apprehensive- 

ness. 
And  first  the  chillness  of  the  sprinkled 

brook 
Smote  on  my  brows,  and  then  I  seem'd 

to  hear 
Its  murmur,  as  the  drowning  seaman 

hears, 
Who  with  his  head  below  the  surface 

dropt 
Listens    the   muffled   blooming   indis- 
tinct 
Of  the   confused    floods,   and    dimly 

knows 
His  head  shall  rise  no  more  :  and  then 

came  in 
The  white  light   of   the   weary  moon 

above, 
Diffused  and  molten  into  flaky  cloud. 
Was  my  sight  drunk  that  it  did  shape 

to  me 
Him   who    should   own    that    name  ? 

Were  it  not  well 
If  so  be  that  the  echo  of  that  name 
Ringing  within  the  fancy  had  updrawn 
A  fashion  and  a  phantasm  of  the  form 
It  should  attach  to  ?     Phantom  ! — had 

the  ghastliest 
That  ever  lusted  for  a  body,  sucking 
The  foul  steam  of  the  grave  to  thicken 

by  it. 
There   in    the   shuddering    moonlight 

brought  its  face 
And  what  it  has  for  eyes  as  close  to 

mine 
As  he  did — better  that  than  his,  than 

he 
The  friend,  the  neighbor,  Lionel,  the 

beloved. 
The    loved,    the   lover,     the     happy 

Lionel, 
The  low-voiced,  tender-spirited  Lionel, 
All  joy,  to  whom  my  agony  was  a  joy. 


676 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


Oh  how  her  choice  did  leap  forth  from 

his  eyes  ! 
Oh  how  her  love  did  clothe  itself  in 

smiles 
About  his  lips !  and— not  one  moment's 

grace — 
Then  when   the  effect    weigh'd  seas 

upon  my  head 
To  come  my  way  !  to  twit  me  with  the 

cause ! 

Was  not  the  land  as  free  thro'  all 
her  ways 
To  him  as  me  ?     Was  not  his  wont  to 

walk 
Between  the  going  light  and  growing 

night  ? 
Had  I  not  learnt  my  loss  before   he 

came  ? 
Could  that  be  more  because  he  came 

my  way  ? 
Why  should  he  not  come  my  way  if  he 

would  ? 
And  yet   to-night   to-night — when   all 

my  wealth 
Flash'd  from  me  in  a  moment  and  I 

fell 
Beggar'd  forever — why  should  he  come 

my  way 
Robed  in  those  robes  of  light  I  must 

not  wear, 
With  that  great  crown  of  beams  about 

his  brows — 
Come  like  an  angel  to  a  damned  soul, 
To  tell  him  of  the  bliss  he  had  with 

God- 
Come  like  a  careless  and  greedy  heir 
That  scarce  can  wait  the  reading  of 

will 
Before  he  takes    possession  ?      Was 

mine  a  mood 
To  be  invaded  rudely,  and  not  rather 
A  sacred,  secret,  unapproached  woe, 
Unspeakable  ?     I   was   shut   up   with 

Grief ; 
She  took  the  body  of  my  past  delight, 
Narded  and  swathed  and  balm'd  it  for 

herself. 
And  laid  it  in  a  sepulchre  of  rock 
Never  to  rise  again.     I  was  led  mute 
Into  her  temple  like  a  sacrifice ; 


I  was  the  High  Priest  in  her  holiest 

place, 
Not  to  be  loudly  broken  in  upon, 

O  friend,  thoughts  deep  and  heavy  as 
these  well  nigh 
O'erbore  the  limits  of  my  brain ;  but 

he 
Bent  o'er  me,  and  my  neck  his  arm  up- 
stayed. 
I  thought  it  was  an  adder's  fold,  and 

once 
I  strove  to  disengage  myself,  but  fail'd, 
Being  so  feeble :  she  bent  above  me, 

too ; 
Wan  was  her  cheek ;  for  whatso'er  of 

blight 
Lives  in  the  dewy  touch  of  pity  had 

made 
The  red  rose  there  a  pale  one — and 

her  eyes — 
I  saw  the  moonlight  glitter   on  their 

tears — 
And  some  few  drops  of  that  distress* 

ful  rain 
Fell  on  my  face,  and  her  long  ringlets 

moved, 
Drooping  and  beaten  by  the  breeze, 

and  brush' d 
My  fallen  forehead  in  their  to  and  fro, 
For  in  the  sudden  anguish  of  her  heart 
Loosed  from  their  simple  thrall  they 

had  flow'd  abroad, 
And  floated  on  and  parted  round  her 

neck, 
Mantling   her  form    half   way.     She, 

when  I  woke. 
Something  she  ask'd,I  know  not  what, 
and  ask'd, 

Unanswer'd,  since  I  spake  not;  foi 

the  sound 
Of  that  dear  voice  so  musically  low, 
And  now  first  heard  with  any  sense  of 

pain, 
As  it  had  taken  life  away  before. 
Choked  all  the  syllables,  that  strove 

to  rise 
From  my  full  heart. 

The  blissful  lover,  too, 
From  his  great   hoard  of  happiness 

distill'd 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


677 


Some  drops  of  solace  :  like  a  vain  rich 

nian, 
That,  having  always  prosper'd  in  the 

world, 
Folding  his  hands,  deals  comfortable 

words 
-To  hearts  wounded  forever :   yet,  in 

truth, 
Fair  speech  was  his  and  delicate   of 

phrase, 
Falling  in  whispers  on  the  sense,  ad- 

dress'd 
More  to  the  inward  than  the  outward 

ear. 
As  rain  of  the  midsummer  midnight 

soft, 
Scarce  heard,  recalling  fragrance  and 

the  green 
Of  the   dead   spring :  but    mine   was 

wholly  dead. 
No  bud,  no  leaf,  no  flower, no  fruit  for 

me. 
Yet  who  had  done,  or  who  had  suffer'd 


wrong 


And  why  was  I  to  darken  their  pure 

love. 
If,  as  I  found,  they  two  did  love  each 

other. 
Because  my  own  was  darken'd  ?    Why 

was  I 
To  cross  between  their  happy  star  and 

them  ? 
To  stand  a  shadow  by  their  shining 

doors. 
And   vex  them    with    my  darkness  ? 

Did  I  love  her  ? 
Ye  know  that  I  did  love  her ;  to  this 

present 
My   full-orb'd  love   has    waned    not. 

Did  I  love  her. 
And  could  I  look  upon  her  tearful 

eyes  ? 
What  had  she  done  to  weep  .?    Why 

should  she  weep .'' 
O  innocent  of  spirit— let  my  heart 
Break  rather — whom  the  gentlest  airs 

of  Heaven 
Should  kiss  with  an  unwonted  gentle- 
ness. 
Her  love  did  murder    mine  ?    What 

then  ?    She  deem'd 


I  wore  a  brother's  mind  :  she  call'd  me 

brother : 
She  told   all  her  love  :  she  shall  not 

weep. 

The  brightness  of  a  burning  thought, 

awhile 
In  battle  with  the  glooms  of  my  dark 

will, 
Moon-like  emerged,  and  to  itself  lift 

up 
There  on  the  depth  of  an  unfathom'd 

woe 
Reflex  of  action.     Starting  up  at  once, 
As  from    a  dismal  dream  of  my  own 

death, 
I,  for   I   loved  her,  lost  my  love  in 

Love  ; 
I,  for  I  loved  her,  graspt  the  hand  she 

lov'd. 
And  laid  it  in  her  own,  and  sent  my 

cry 
Thro'  the  blank  night  to  Him  who 

loving  made 
The  happy  and  the  unhappy  love,  that 

He 
Would  hold  the  hand  of  blessing  over 

them, 
Lionel,    the   happy,  and   her,  and   her 

his  bride  1 
Let  them  so  love  that  men  and  boys 

may  say, 
"  Lo  !    how  they  love    each   other  !  " 

till  their  love 
Shall  ripen  to  a  proverb,  unto  all 
Known,  when  their  faces  are  forgot  in 

the  land — 
One  golden  dream  of  love,  from  which 

may  death 
Awake  them  with  heaven's  music  in  a 

life 
More  living  to  some  happier  happi- 
ness, 
Swallowing  its  precedent  in  victory. 
And  as  for  me,  Camilla,  as  for  me, — 
The  dew  of  tears  is  an  unwholesome 

dew. 
They  will  but  sicken  the  sick  plant  the 

more. 
Deem  that  I  love  thee  but  as  brothers 

do. 


678 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


So  shalt  thou  love  me  still  as  sisters  do  ; 
Or  if  thou  dream  aught  farther,  dream 

but  how 
I   could  have   loved   thee,  had  there 

been  none  else 
To  love  as  lovers,  loved  again  by  ihee. 

Or  this,  or  somewhat  like  to  this,  I 

spake, 
When  I  beheld  her  weep  so  ruefully  ; 
For  sure  my  love  should  ne'er  indue 

the  front 
And  mask   of    Hate,  who    lives    on 

others'  moans. 
Shall  Love  pledge  Hatred  in  her  bit- 
ter draughts. 
And  batten  on    her  poisons?     Love 

forbid ! 
Love  passeth  not  the  threshold  of  cold 

Hate, 
And  Hate  is  strange  beneath  the  root 

of  Love 
O  Love,  if  thou  be'st  Love,  dry  up 

these  tears 
Shed  for  the   love  of  Love ;  for  tho' 

mine  image, 
The  subject  of  thy  power,  be  cold  in 

her, 
Yet,  like  cold  snow,  it  melteth  in  the 

source 
Of  these   sad  tears,  and  feeds  their 

downward  flow. 
So  Love,  arraing'd  to  judgment  and  to 

death. 
Received  unto  himself  a  part  of  blame 
Being  guiltless,  as  an  innocent  prisoner. 
Who,  when  the  woful  sentence  hath 

been  past. 
And  all  the  clearness  of  his  fame  hath 

gone 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  curse  of 

man. 
First  falls  asleep  in  swoon,  wherefrom 

awaked, 
And  looking  round  upon  his  tearful 

friends, 
Forthwith  and  in  his  agony  conceives 
A  shameful   sense  as  of  a  cleaving 

crime — 
For  whence  without  some  guilt  should 

such  grief  be  ? 


So  died  that  hour,  and  fell  into  the 

abysm 
Of  forms  outworn,  but  not  to  me  out« 

worn. 
Who  never  hail'd  another — was  there 

one  "i 
There  might  be  one — one  other,  worth 

the  life 
That  made  it  sensible.     So  that  hour 

died 
Like  odor  rapt  into  the  winged  wind 
Born  into  alien  lands  and  far  away. 

There  be  some  hearts  so  airily  built, 

that  they. 
They — when  their  love  is  wreck'd — if 

Love  can  wreck — 
On  that  sharp  ridge  of  utmost  doom 

ride  highly 
Above  the  perilous  seas  of  Change  and 

Chance ; 
Nay,   more,   hold  out  the    lights    of 

cheerfulness ; 
As  the  tall  ship,  that  many  a  dreary 

year 
Knit  to  some  dismal  sand-bank  far  at 

sea, 
All  thro'  the  livelong  hours  of  utter 

dark. 
Showers  slanting  light  upon  the  dol* 

orous  wave. 
For  me — what  light,  what  gleam  on 

those  black  ways 
Where  Love  could  walk  with  banish'd 

Hope  no  more  ? 

It  was  ill  done  to  part  you,  Sisters 

fair; 
Love's  arms  were  wreath'd  about  the 

neck  of  Hope, 
And  Hope  kiss'd  Love,  and  Love  drew 

in  her  breath 
In  that  close  kiss,  and  drank  her  whis- 

per'd  tales. 
They  said  that  Love  would  die  when 

Hope  was  gone. 
And  Love  mourn'd  long,  and  sorrow'd 

after  Hope ; 
At  last  she  sought  out  Memory,  and 

they  trod 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


679 


fiThe  same  old  paths  where  Love  had 
walk'd  with  Hope 
.nd  Memory  fed  the  soul  of  Love  with 
tears. 

IL 

FIFrom  that  time  forth  I  would  not  see 

her  more ; 
'But  many  weary  moons  I  lived  alone — 
Alone,  and  in  the  heart  of  the  great 

forest. 
Sometimes  upon  the  hills  beside  the 

sea 
All  day  I  watch'd  the  floating  isles  of 

shade, 
And  sometimes  on  the  shore,  upon  the 

sands 
Insensibly  I  drew  her  name,  until 
The  meaning  of  the  letters  shot  into 
My  brain;    anon   the   wanton    billow 

wash'd 
Them  over,   till   they  faded  like   my 

love. 
The    hollow  caverns   heard  me  —  the 

black  brooks 
Of  the  mid-forest  heard  me — the  soft 

winds, 
Laden  with  thistle  down  and  seeds  of 

flowers. 
Paused  in  their  course  to  hear  me,  for 

my  voice 
Was  all  of  thee :    the   merry   linnet 

knew  me, 
The  squirrel  knew  me,  and  the  dragon- 

fly 
Shot  by  me  like  a  flash  of  purple  fire. 
The    rough    brier    tore  my  bleeding 

palms ;  the  hemlock 
Brow-high,  did  strike  my  forehead  as  I 

past; 
Yet  trod  I  not  the  wild  flower  in  my 

path, 
Nor  bruised  the  wild  bird's  egg. 

Was  this  the  end  ? 
Why  grew  we  then  together  in  one 

plot? 
Why  fed  we  from  one  fountain  ?  drew 

one  sun  ? 
Why  were  our  mothers  branches  of 

one  stem  } 


Why  were  we  one  in  all  things,  save 
in  that 

Where  to  have  been  one  had  been  the 
cope  and  crown 

Of  all  I  hoped  and  fear'd  t — if  that 
same  nearness 

Were  father  to  this  distance,  and  that 
one 

Vauntcourier  to  this  double  ?  if  Affec- 
tion 

Living  slew  Love,  and  Sympathy  hew'd 
out 

The  bosom-sepulchre  of  Sympathy  } 

Chiefly  I  sought  the  cavern  and  the 
hill 

Where  last  we  roam'd  together,  for  the 
sound 

Of  the  loud  stream  was  pleasant,  and 
the  wind 

Came  wooingly  with  woodbine  smells. 
Sometimes 

All  day  I  sat  within  the  cavern-mouth, 

Fixing  my  eyes  on  those  three  cypress 
cones 

That  spired  above  the  wood;  and  with 
mad  hand 

Tearing  the  bright  leaves  of  the  ivy- 
screen, 

I  cast  them  in  the  noisy  brook  be- 
neath, 

And  watch'd  them  till  they  vanish'd 
from  my  sight 

Beneath  the  bower  of  wreathed  eglan- 
tines : 

And  all  the  fragments  of  the  living 
rock 

(Huge  blocks,  which  some  old  trem- 
bling of  the  world 

Had  loosen'd  from  the  mountain,  tiK 
they  fell 

Half  digging  their  own  graves)  these 
in  my  agony 

Did  I  make  bare  of  all  the  golden 
moss. 

Wherewith  the  dashing  runnel  in  the 
spring 

Had  liveried  them  all  over.  In  my 
brain 

The  spirit  seem'd  to  flag  from  thought 
to  thought, 


68o 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


As  moonlight  wandering  thro'  a  mist : 

my  blood 
Crept  like  marsh  drains  thro'  all  my 

languid  limbs ; 
The  motions  of  my  heart  seem'd  far 

within  me, 
Unfrequent,  low,   as   tho'  it  told  its 

pulses ; 
And  yet  it  shook  nie,  that  my  frame 

would  shudder, 
As  if  'twere  drawn  asunder  by  the  rack. 
But  over  the  deep  graves  of  Hope  and 

Fear, 
And  all  the  broken  palaces  of  the  Past, 
Brooded  one  master-passion  evermore, 
Like  to  a  low-hung  and  a  fiery  sky 
Above  some    fair    metropolis,   earth- 

shock'd, — 
Hung  round  with  ragged  ruins  and 

burning  folds, — 
Embathing  all  with  wild   and  woful 

hues, 
Great    hills    of    ruins,   and  collapsed 

masses 
Of  thunder-shaken  columns  indistinct. 
And  fused  together  in  the  tyrannous 

light- 
Ruins,  the  ruin  of  all  my  life  and  me  ! 

Sometimes  I  thought  Camilla  was 
no  more. 

Some  one  had  told  she  was  dead,  and 
ask'd  me 

If  I  would  see  her  burial;  then  I 
seem'd 

To  rise,  and  through  the  forest-shadow 
borne 

With  more  than  mortal  swiftness,  I 
ran  down 

The  steepy  sea-bank,  till  I  came  upon 

The  rear  of  a  procession,  curving 
round 

The  silver-sheeted  bay :  in  front  of 
which 

Six  stately  virgins,  all  in  white,  up- 
bare 

K  broad  earth-sweeping  pall  of  whitest 
lawn, 

Wreathed  round  the  bier  with  gar- 
lands :  in  the  distance,  [hill 

From  out  the  yellow  woods  upon  the 


Look'd  forth  the  summit  and  the  pin. 

nacles 
Of  a  gray  steeple — thence  at  intervals 
A  low  bell  tolling.     All  the  pageantry, 
Save  those  six  virgins  which  upheld 

the  bier. 
Were  stoled  from  head  to  foot  in  flow- 
ing black : 
One  walk'd  abreast  with  me,  and  veil'd 

his  brow. 
And  he  was  loud  in  weeping  and  in 

praise 
Of  her  he  follow'd  :  a  strong  sympathy 
Shook  all  my  soul :  I  flung  myself  upon 

him 
In  tears  and  cries :  I  told  him  all  my 

love, 
How  I  had  loved  her  from  the  first; 

whereat 
He  shrank  and  howl'd,  and  from  his 

brow  drew  back 
His  hand  to  push  me  from  him ;  and 

the  face. 
The  very  face  and  form  of  Lionel 
Flash'd  thro'  my  eyes  into  my  inner- 
most brain. 
And  at  his  feet  I  seemed  to  faint  and 

fall. 
To  fall  and  die  away.     I  could  not 

rise 
Albeit  I  strove  to  follow.     They  past 

on, 
The  lordly  Phantasms !  in  their  floating 

folds 
They  past  and  were  no  more :  but  I 

had  fallen 
Prone  by  the  dashing  runnel  on  the 

grass. 

Alway  the  inaudible  invisible  thought 
Artificer  and  subject,  lord  and  slave, 
Shaped  by  the  audible  and  visible, 
Moulded  the  audible  and  visible  ; 
All  crisped  sounds  of  wave  and  leaf 

and  wind 
Flatter' d  the  fancy  of  my  fading  brain ; 
The     cloud-pavilion'd     element,    the 

wood. 
The  mountain,  the  three  cypresses,  the 

cave,  [moon 

Storm,  sunset,  glows  and  glories  of  tho 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


681 


Below  black  firs,  when  silent-creeping 

winds 
Laid  the  long  night  in  silver  streaks 

and  bars, 
Were  wrought  into  the  tissue  of  my 

dream  : 
The  moanings  in  the  forest,  the  loud 

brook, 
Cries  of  the  partridge  like  a  rusty  key 
Turn'd  in  a  lock,  owl-whoop  and  dor- 
hawk-whir 
Awoke   me   not,  but  were   a  part  of 

sleep. 
And  voices  in  the  distance  calling  to 

me 
And  in  my  vision  bidding  me  dream 

on, 
Like  sounds  without  the  twilight  realm 

of  dreams, 
Which  wander  round  the  bases  of  the 

hills. 
And  murmur  at  the  low-dropt  eaves  of 

sleep. 
Half  -  entering    the    portals.      Often- 
times 
The  vision  had  fair  prelude,  in  the 

end 
Opening  on    darkness,  stately    vesti- 
bules 
To  caves  and  shows  of  Death  :  whether 

the  mind, 
With    some  revenge, — even  to  itself 

unknown, — 
Made  strange  division  of  its  suffering 
With    her,   whom    to    have  suffering 

view'd  had  been 
Extremest  pain ;  or  that  the  clear-eyed 

Spirit, 
Being  blunted  in  the  Present,  grew  at 

length 
Prophetical  and  prescient  of  whate'er 
The   Future    had   in   store :    or    that 

which  most 
Enchains    belief,    the    sorrow   of   my 

spirit 
Was  of  so  wide  a  compass  it  took  in 
All  I  had  loved,  and  my  dull  agony, 
Ideally  to  her  transferr'd,  became 
Anguish  intolerable. 

The  day  waned; 
Alone  I  sat  with  her :  about  my  brow 


Her  warm  breath  floated  in  the  utter- 
ance 
Of  silver-chorded  tones :  her  lips  were 

sunder'd 
With  smiles  of  tranquil  bliss,  which 

broke  in  light 
Like  morning  from  her  eyes — her  elo« 

quent  eyes 
(As  I  have  seen  them  many  a  hundred 

times), 
Filled  all  with  pure  clear  fire,  thro' 

mine  down  rain'd 
Their  spirit-searching  splendors.     As 

a  vision 
Unto  a  ha:ggard  prisoner,  iron-stay'd 
In  damp  and  dismal  dungeons  under- 
ground. 
Confined    on    points  of    faith,  when 

strength  is  shock'd 
With    torment,    and    expectancy    of 

worse 
Upon  the   morrow,  thro'  the  ragged 

walls, 
All    unawares    before    his    half-shut 

eyes, 
Comes  in  upon  him  in  the  dead  of 

night. 
And  with  the  excess  of  sweetness  and 

of  awe. 
Makes  the  heart  tremble,  and  the  sight 

run  over 
Upon  his  steely  gyves;  so  those  fair 

eyes 
Shone  on  my  darkness,  forms  which 

ever  stood 
Within  the  magic  cirque  of  memory. 
Invisible  but  deathless,  waiting  still 
The  edict  of  the  will  to  re-assume 
The  semblance  of  those  rare  realities 
Of  which  they  were  the  mirrors.    Now 

the  light 
Which  was  their  life  bursts  through 

the  cloud  of  thought 
Keen,  irrepressible. 

It  was  a  room 
Within  the  summer-house  of  which  I 

spake, 
Hung  round  with  paintings  of  the  sea, 

and  one 
A  vessel   in    mid-ocean,  her  heaved 

prow 


682 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


Clambering,  the    mast    bent   and  the 

ravin  wind 
In  her  sail  roaring.     From  the  outer 

day, 
Betwixt    the    close-set    ivies    came    a 

broad 
And  solid  beam  of  isolated  light, 
Crowded   with    driving    atomies,   and 

fell 
Slanting  upon  that  picture,  from  prime 

youth 
Well  known,  well  loved.     She  drew  it 

long  ago 
Forth-gazing  on  the  waste  and  open 

sea. 
One  morning  when  the  upblown  billow 

ran 
Shoreward  beneath  red  clouds,  and  I 

had  pour'd 
Into  the   shadowing    pencil's    naked 

forms 
Color  and  life  :  it  was  a  bond  and  seal 
Of  friendship,  spoken  of  with  tearful 

smiles ; 
A   monument    of    childhood    and    of 

love; 
The  poesy  of  childhood ;  my  lost  love 
Symbol'd  in  storm.     We  gazed  on  it 

together 
In  mute  and  glad  remembrance,  and 

each  heart 
Grew  closer  to  the  other,  and  the  eye 
Was  riveted  and  charm-bound,  gazing 

like 
The  Indian  on  a  still-eyed  snake,  low- 

couch'd— 
A  beauty  which  is  death ;  when  all  at 

once 
That   painted  vessel,   as    with    inner 

life, 
Began  to  heave  upon  that  painted  sea ; 
An  earthquake,  my  loud  heart-beats, 

made  the  ground 
Reel  under  us,  and  all  at  once,  soul, 

life. 
And  breath  and  motion,  past  and  flow'd 

away 
To  those  unreal  billows  :   round  and 

round 
A    whirlwind    caught    and    bore  us; 

mighty  gyves 


Rapid  and  vast,  of  hissing  spray  wind- 
driven 
Far  thro'  the  dizzy  dark.     Aloud  she 

shriek'd ; 
My   heart   was   cloven   with   pain;    I 

wound  my  arms 
About  her:    we  whirl'd  giddily;   the 

wind 
Sung;  but  I  claspt  her  without  fear: 

her  weight 
Shrank  in  my  grasp,  and  over  my  dim 

eyes. 
And    parted    lips    which    drank    her 

breath,  down  hung 
The  jaws  of  Death :  I,  groaning,  from 

me  flung 
Her  empty  phantom :  all  the  sway  and 

whirl 
Of  the  storm  dropt  to  windless  calm, 

and  I 
Down  welted  thro'  the  dark  ever  and 

ever. 

III. 

I  CAME  one  day  and  sat  among  the 

stones 
Strewn   in  the  entry  of  the   moaning 

cave; 
A  morning  air,  sweet  after  rain,  ran 

over 
The  rippling  levels  of  the  lake,  and 

blew 
Coolness  and  moisture  and  all  smells 

of  bud 
And  foliage  from  the  dark  and  drip- 
ping woods 
Upon  my  fever'd  brows  that  shook  and 

throbb'd 
From  temple  unto  temple.     To  what 

height 
The  day  had  grown  I  know  not.   Then 

came  on  me 
The  hollow  tolling  of  the  bell,  and  all 
The  vision  of  the  bier.     As  heretofore 
I  walk'd  behind  with  one  who  veil'd 

his  brow. 
Meth  ought  by  slow  degrees  the  sullen 

bell 
Toll'd  quicker,  and  the  breakers  o» 

the  shore 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


6S^ 


Sloped  into   louder  surf:    those   that 

went  with  nje, 
And  those  that  held  the  bier  before 

my  face, 
Moved  with  one  spirit  round  about  the 

bay, 
Trod  swifter  steps ;  and  while  I  walk'd 

with  these 
In  marvel   at  that  gradual  change,  I 

thought 
Four   bells   instead   of   one   began  to 

ring, 
Four  merry  bells,  four  merry  marriage 

bells, 
In  clanging  cadence  jangling  peal  on 

peal — 
A  long  loud  clash  of  rapid  marriage 

bells. 
Then  those  who  led  the  van,  and  those 

in  rear, 
Rush'd  into  dance,  and  like  wild  Bac- 
chanals 
Fled  onward  to  the  steeple    in    the 

woods : 
I,  too,  was  borne  along  and  felt  the 

blast 
Beat    on   my  heated  eyelids:    all  at 

once 
The  front  rank  made  a  sudden  halt ; 

the  bells 
Lapsed  into    frightful    stillness;    the 

surge  fell 
From  thunder  into  whispers;    those 

six  maids 
With  shrieks  and  ringing  laughter  on 

the  sand 
Threw  down  the  bier ;  the  woods  upon 

the  hill 
"Waved  with  a  sudden  gust  that  sweep- 
ing down 
Took  the  edges  of  the  pall,  and  blew 

it  far 
Until  it  hung,  a  little  silver  cloud 
Over  the  sounding  seas  :  I  turn'd »  my 

heart 


Shrank  in  me,  like  a  snow-flake  in  the 

hand. 
Waiting  to  see  the  settled  countenance 
Of  her  I   lov'd,   adorn'd  with  fading 

flowers. 
But  she  from  out  her  death-like  chrys- 
alis, 
She  from  her  bier,  as  into  fresher  life. 
My   sister,   and    my   cousin,   and   my 

love, 
Leapt  lightly  clad  in  bridal  white — her 

hair 
Studded  with  one  rich  Provence  rose 

— a  light 
Of  smiling  welcome  round  her  lips^ — 

her  eyes 
And  cheeks   as  bright  as  when  she 

climb'd  the  hill. 
One  hand  she  reach'd  to  those  that 

came  behind. 
And  while  I  mused  nor  yet  endured  to 

take 
So  rich  a  prize,  the  man  who  stood 

with  me 
Stept   gayly  forward,  throwing   down 

his  robes, 
And  claspt  her  hand  in  his  :  again  the 

bells 
Jangled  and  clang'd  :  again  the  stormy 

surf 
Crash'd  in  the  shingle :  and  the  whirl- 
ing rout 
Led  by  those  two  rush'd  into  dance, 

and  fled 
Wind-footed    to    the    steeple    in  the 

woods. 
Till  they  were  swallow'd  in  the  leafy 

bowers. 
And  I  stood  sole  beside  the  vacant 

bier. 

There,  there,  my  latest  vision — then 
the  event  I 

For   "The   Golden    Supper,"   sei 
page  449. 


684  CHILD-SONGS. 


CHILD-SONGS. 


THE  CITY  CHILD. 


Dainty  little  maiden,  whither  would  you  wander  ? 

Whither  from  this  pretty  home,  the  home  where  mother  dwells? 
Far  and  far  away,"  said  the  dainty  little  maiden, 
'  All  among  the  gardens,  auriculas,  anemones, 

Rose3  and  lilies  and  Canterbury-bells.'* 

Dainty  little  maiden,  whither  would  you  wander  ? 

Whither  from  this  pretty  house,  this  city-house  of  ourt  ? 
Far  and  far  away,"  said  the  dainty  little  maiden. 
All  among  the  meadows,  the  clover  and  the  clematis, 

Daisies  and  kingcups  and  honeysuckle-flowers." 


MINNIE  AND  WINNIE. 


Minnie  and  Winnie  Sleep,  little  ladies ! 

Slept  in  a  shell.  W^ake  not  soon  I 

Sleep,  little  ladies!  Echo  on  echo 

And  they  slept  well.  Dies  to  the  moon. 

Pink  was  the  shell  within,  Two  bright  stars 

Silver  without ;  Peep'd  into  the  shell. 

Sounds  of  the  great  sea  "  What  are  they  dreaming  o£ 

Wander'd  about.  Who  can  tell  ?  " 

Started  a  green  linnet 

Out  of  the  croft  ; 
Wake,  little  ladies. 

The  sun  is  aloft ! 


TO 

ALFRED   TENNYSON, 

MY    GRANDSON. 


Golden  hair'd  Ally  whose  name  is  one  with  mine, 

Crazy  with  laughter  and  babble  and  earth's  new  wine. 

Now  that  the  flower  of  a  year  and  a  half  is  thine 

O  little  blossom,  O  mine,  and  mine  of  mine, 

Glorious  poet  who  never  hast  written  a  line, 

Laugh,  for  the  name  at  the  head  of  my  verse  is  thine. 

May'st  thou  never  be  wrong'd  by  the  name  that  is  mine  I 


THE  FIRST  QUARREL.  687 

THE    FIRST    QUARREL. 

(IN    THE    ISLE    OF   WIGHT.) 


'  Wait  a  little,'  you  say,  'you  are  sure  it'll  all  come  right,' 

But  the  boy  was  born  i'  trouble,  an'  looks  so  wan  an'  so  white  : 

Wait  !  an'  once  I  ha'  waited — I  hadn't  to  wait  for  long. 

Now  I  wait,  wait,  wait  for  Harry. — No,  no,  you  are  doing  me  wron^ 

Harry  and  I  were  married:   the  boy  can  hold  up  his  head, — 

The  boy  was  born  in  wedlock,  but  after  my  man  was  dead ; 

I  ha'  work'd  for  him  fifteen  years,  an'  I  work  an'  I  wait  to  the  end. 

I  am  all  alone  in  the  world,  an'  you  are  my  only  friend. 


Doctor,  \iyou  can  wait,  I'll  tell  you  the  tale  o'  my  life. 

When  Harry  an'  I  were  children,  he  call'd  me  his  own  little  wife; 

I  was  happy  when  I  was  with  him,  an'  sorry  when  he  was  away. 

An'  when  we  play'd  together,  I  loved  him  better  than  play  ; 

He  workt  me  the  daisy  chain — he  made  me  the  cowslip  ball, 

He  fought  the  boys  that  were  rude  an'  I  loved  him  better  than  all. 

Passionate  girl  tho'  I  was,  an'  often  at  home  in  disgrace, 

I  never  could  quarrel  with  Harry — I  had  but  to  look  in  his  face. 

III. 
There  was  a  farmer  in  Dorset  of  Harry's  kin,  that  had  need 
Of  a  good  stout  lad  at  his  farm  ;  he  sent,  an'  the  father  agreed ; 
So  Harry  was  bound  to  the  Dorsetshire  farm  for  years  an'  for  years  ; 
I  walked  with  him  down  to  the  quay,  poor  lad,  an'  we  parted  in  tears. 
The  boat  was  beginning  to  move,  we  heard  them  a-ringing  the  bell, 
*  I'll  never  love  any  but  you,  God  bless  you,  my  own  little  Nell.' 

IV. 

I  was  a  child,  an'  he  was  a  child,  an'  he  came  to  harm ; 
There  was  a  girl,  a  hussy,  that  workt  with  him  up  at  the  farm, 
One  had  deceived  her  an'  left  her  alone  with  her  sin  an'  her  shame, 
And  so  she  was  wicked  with  Harry ;  the  girl  was  the  most  to  blame. 

V. 

And  years  went  over  till  I  that  was  little  had  grown  so  tall. 

The  men  would  say  of  the  maids  *  Our  Nelly's  the  flower  of  'em  all.' 

I  didn't  take  heed  o'  thein^  but  I  taught  myself  all  I  could 

To  make  a  good  .vife  for  Harry,  when  Harry  came  home  for  good. 


Often  I  seem'd  unhappy,  and  often  as  happy  too, 

For  I  heard  it  abroad  in  the  fields  '  I'll  never  love  any  but  you ; ' 

'  I'll  never  love  any  but  you '  the  morning  song  of  the  lark, 

'  I'll  never  love  any  but  you '  the  nightingale's  hymn  in  the  dark. 


688  THE  FIRST  QUARREL. 


VII. 

And  Harry  came  home  at  last,  but  he  look'd  at  me  sidelong  and  shy, 
Vext  me  a  bit,  till  he  told  me  that  so  many  years  had  gone  by, 
I  had  grown  so  handsome  and  tall— that  I  might  ha'  forgot  him  somehow, 
For  he  thought — there  were  other  lads — he  was  fear'd  to  look  at  me  now. 

VIII. 

Hard  was  the  frost  in  the  field,  we  were  married  o'  Christmas  day, 
Married  among  the  red  berries,  an'  all  as  merry  as  May — 
Those  were  the  pleasant  times,  my  house  an'  my  man  were  my  pride. 
We  seem'd  like  ships  i'  the  Channel  a-sailing  with  wind  an'  tide. 

IX. 

But  work  was  scant  in  the  Isle,  tho'  he  tried  the  villages  round. 
So  Harry  went  over  the  Solent  to  see  if  work  could  be  found; 
An'  he  wrote  *  I  ha'  six  weeks'  work,  little  wife,  so  far  as  I  know ; 
I'll  come  for  an  hour  to-morrow,  an'  kiss  you  before  I  go.' 

X. 

So  I  set  to  righting  the  house,  for  wasn't  he  coming  that  day? 
An'  I  hit  on  an  old  deal-box  that  was  push'd  in  a  corner  away, 
It  was  full  of  old  odds  an'  ends,  an'  a  letter  along  wi'  the  rest, 
I  had  better  ha'  put  my  naked  hand  in  a  hornets'  nest. 

XI. 

'  Sweetheart ' — this  was  the  letter — this  was  the  letter  I  read — 
*  You  promised  to  find  me  work  near  you,  an'  I  wish  I  was  dead — 
Didn't  you  kiss  me  an'  promise  ?  you  haven't  done  it,  my  lad. 
An'  I  almost  died  o'  your  going  away,  an'  I  wish  that  I  had.' 

XII. 

I  too  wash  that  I  had — in  the  pleasant  times  that  had  past, 
Before  I  quarreli'd  with  Harry — my  quarrel — the  first  an'  the  last. 

XIII. 

For  Harry  came  in,  an'  I  flung  him  the  letter  that  drove  me  wild, 

An'  he  told  it  me  all  at  once,  as  simple  as  any  child, 

'  What  can  it  matter,  my  lass,  what  I  did  wi'  my  single  life  ? 

I  ha'  been  as  true  to  you  as  ever  a  man  to  his  wife ; 

An'  she  wasn't  one  o'-the  worst.'     '  Then,'  I  said,  '  I'm  none  o'  the  best.' 

An'  he  smiled  at  me,  '  Ain't  you,  my  love?     Come,  come,  little  wife,  let 

it  rest  ! 
The  man  isn't  like  the  woman,  no  need  to  make  such  a  stir,' 
But  he  anger'd  me  all  the  more,  an'  I  said  *  You  were  keeping  with  her, 
When  I  was  a-loving  you  all  along  an'  the  same  as  before.' 
An'  he  didn't  speak  for  awhile,  an'  he  anger'd  me  more  and  more. 
Then  he  patted  my  hand  in  his  gentle  way,  *  Let  bygones  be  ! ' 


RIZFAH.  689 


*  Bygones  !  you  kept  yours  hush'd,'  I  said,  '  when  you  married  me  ! 
By-gones  ma'  be  come-agains ;  an'  she — in  her  shame  an'  her  sin — 
You'll  have  her  to  nurse  my  child,  if  I  die  o'  my  lying  in  ! 

You'll  make  her  its  second  mother  !     I  hate  her — an'  I  hate  you  1' 
Ah,  Harry,  my  man,  you  had  better  ha'  beaten  me  black  an'  blue 
Than  ha'  spoken  as  kind  as  you  did,  when  I  were  so  crazy  wi'  spite, 

*  Wait  a  little,  my  lass,  I  am  sure  it'll  all  come  right.' 


An'  he  took  three  turns  in  the  rain,  an'  I  watch'd  him,  an'  when  he  came  ii 
I  felt  that  my  heart  was  hard,  he  was  all  wet  thro'  to  the  skin. 
An'  I  never  said  '  off  wi'  the  wet,'  I  never  said  'on  wi'  the  dry,' 
So  I  knew  my  heart  was  hard,  when  he  came  to  bid  me  godd-by. 
*  You  said  that  you  hated  me,  Ellen,  but  that  isn't  true,  you  know  ; 
I  am  going  to  leave  you  a  bit — you'll  kiss  me  before  I  go  ?  ' 


*  Going  !  you're  going  to  her — kiss  her — if  you  will,'  I  said, — 

I  was  near  my  time  wi'  the  boy,  I  must  ha'  been  light  i'  my  head — 

*  I  had  sooner  be  cursed  than  kiss'd  ! ' — I  didn't  know  well  what  I  meant, 
But  I  turn'd  my  face  from  him,  an'  he  turn'd  his  face  an'  he  went. 

XVI. 

And  then  he  sent  me  a  letter,  '  I've  gotten  my  work  to  do ; 
You  wouldn't  kiss  me,  my  lass,  an'  I  never  loved  any  but  you. 
I  am  sorry  for  all  the  quarrel  an'  sorry  for  what  she  wrote, 
I  ha'  six  weeks'  work  in  Jersey  an'  go  to-night  by  the  boat.' 


An'  the  wind  began  to  rise,  an'  I  thought  of  him  out  at  sea. 

An'  I  felt  I  had  been  to  blame ;  he  was  always  kind  to  me. 

*  Wait  a  little,  my  lass,  I  am  sure  it'll  all  eome  right ' — 

An'  the  boat  went  down  that  night — the  boat  went  down  that  night. 


RIZPAH. 


1. 


Wailing,  wailing,  wailing,  the  wind  over  land  and  sea — 
And  Willy's  voice  in  the  wind,  'O  mother,  come  out  to  me.* 
Why  should  he  call  me  to-night,  when  he  knows  that  I  cannot  go  ? 
For  the  downs  are  as  bright  as  day,  and  the  full  moon  stares  at  the  snow. 


690  RIZPAIL 


We  should  be  seen,  my  dear';  they  would  spy  us  out  of  the  town. 
The  loud  black  nights  for  us,  and  the  storm  rushing  over  the  down, 
When  I  cannot  see  my  own  hand,  but  am  led  by  the  creak  of  the  chain, 
And  grovel  and  grope  for  my  son  till  I  find  myself  drenched  with  the  rain. 

III. 
Anything  fallen  again  ?  nay — what  was  there  left  to  fall  ? 
I  have  taken  them  home,  I  have  number'd  the  bones,  I  have  hidden  them 

all— 
What  am  I  saying  ?  and  what  zx&  you  ?  do  you  come  as  a  spy  ? 
Falls  ?  wh|f  falls  ?  who  knows  ?     As  the  tree  falls  so  must  it  lie. 


Who  let  her  in  ?  how  long  has  she  been  ?  you — what  have  you  heard  ? 

Why  did  you  sit  so  quiet  ?  you  never  have  spoken  a  word. 

O — to  pray  with  me — yes — a  lady — none  of  their  spies — 

But  the  night  has  crept  into  my  heart,  and  begun  to  darken  my  eyes. 


Ah-^you,  that  have  lived  so  soft,  what  should  jj/^«  know  of  the  night. 
The  blast  and  the  burning  shame  and  the  bitter  frost  and  the  fright  ? 
I  have  done  it,  while  you  were  asleep — you  were  only  made  for  the  day. 
I  have  gather'd  my  baby  together — and  now  you  may  go  your  way. 

VI. 

Nay — for  it's  kind  of  you.  Madam,  to  sit  by  an  old  dying  wife. 
But  say  nothing  hard  of  my  boy,  I  have  only  an  hour  of  life. 
I  kiss'd  my  boy  in  the  prison,  before  he  went  out  to  die. 

*  They  dared  me  to  do  it,'  he  said,  and  he  never  has  told  me  a  lie. 

I  whipt  him  for  robbing  an  orchard  once  when  he  was  but  a  child— 

*  The  farmer  dared  me  to  do  it,'  he  said ;  he  was  always  so  wild — 
And  idle — and  couldn't  be  idle — my  Willy — he  never  could  rest. 

The  King  should  have  made  him  a  soldier,  he  would  have  been  one  of  the 
best. 

VII. 

But  he  lived  with  jx  lot  of  wild  mates,  and  they  never  would  let  him  be 

good; 
They  swore  that  he  dare  not  rob  the  mail,  and  he  swore  that  he  would  ; 
And  he  took  no  life,  but  he  took  one  purse,  and  when  all  was  done 
He  flung  it  among  his  fellows — I'll  none  of  it,  said  my  son. 

VIII. 
I  came  into  court  to  the  Judge  and  the  lawyers.     I  told  them  my  tale, 
God's  own  truth — but  they  kill'd  him,  they  kill'd  him  for  robbing  the  mail. 
They  hang'd  him  in  chains  for    a   show — we   had   always  borne   a   good 

name — 
To  be  hang'd  for  a  thief— and  then  put  away — isn't  that  enough  shame  ? 


RIZPAH.  691 


Dust  to  dust — low  down— Id:  us  hide  !  but  they  set  him  so  high 
That  all  the  ships  of  the  world  could  stare  at  him,  passing  by. 
God'll  pardon  the  hell-l>lack  raven  and  horrible  fowls  of  the  air, 
But  not  the  black  heart  of  the  lawyer  who  kill'd  him  and  hang'd   hin> 
there. 


And  the  jailer  forced  me  away.     I  had  bid  him  my  last  good-by ; 
They  had  fasten'd  the  door  of  his  cell.      *  O  mother  ! '  I  heard  him  cry. 
I  couldn't  get  back  tho'  I  tried,  he  had  something  further  to  say, 
And  now  I  never  shall  know  it.     The  jailer  forced  me  away. 


Then  since  I  couldn't  l^ut  hear  that  cry  of  my  boy  that  was  dead, 
They  seized  me  and  shut  me  up  :  they  fasten'd  me  down  on  my  bed. 
'  Mother,  O  mother  ! ' — he  call'd  in  the  dark  to  me  year  after  year — 
They  beat  me  for  that,  they  beat  me — you  know  that  I  couldn't  but  hear  ; 
And  then  at  the  last  they  found  I  had  grown  so  stupid  and  still 
They  let  me  abroad  again — but  the  creatures  had  worked  their  will. 

XI. 

Flesh  of  my  flesh  was  gone,  but  bone  of  my  bone  was  left — 

I  stole  them  all  from  the  lawyers — and  you,  will  you  call  it  a  theft  ? — 

My  baby,  the  bones  that  had  suck'd  me,  the  bones  that  had  laughed  and 

liad  cried — 
Theirs  ?     O  no  !  they  are  mine — not  theirs — they  had  moved  in  my  side. 


Do  you  think  I  was  scared  by  the  bones  ?      I  kiss'd  'em,  I  buried  'em 

all— 
I  can' t  dig  deep,  I  am  old — in  the  night  by  the  churchyard  wall. 
My  Willy'll  rise  up  whole  when  the  trumpet  of  judgment  'ill  sound, 
But  I  charge  you  never  to  say  that  I  laid  him  in  holy  ground. 

XIII. 

They  would  scratch  him  up — they  would  hang  him  again  on  the  cursed 

tree. 
Sin  ?     O  yes — we  are  sinners,  I  know — let  all  that  be, 
And  read  me  a  Bible  verse  of  the  Lord's  good  will  toward  men — 
'  Full  of  compassion  and  mercy,  the  Lord  * — let  me  hear  it  again  ; 
•  Full  of  compassion  and  mercy — long-suffering.'     Yes,  O  yes  !  ■ 
For  the  lawyer  is  born  but  to  murder — the  Saviour  lives  but  to  bless. 
He'll  never  put  on  the  black  cap  except  for  the  worst  of  the  worst, 
And  the  first  may  be  last — I  have  heard  it  in  church — and  the  last  may  be 

first. 
Suffering—  O  long-sufTering — yes,  as  the  Lord  must  know. 
Year  after  year  in  the  mist  and  the  wind  and  the  shower  and  the  snow 


692  THE  NORTHERN  COBBLER. 


XIV. 

Heard,  have  you  ?  what  ?  they  have  told  you  he  never  repented  his  sin. 
How  do  they  know  it  !  are  they  his  mother  ?  are  you  of  his  kin  ? 
Heard  !  have  you  ever  heard,  when  the  storm  on  the  downs  began, 
The  wind  that'll  wail  like  a  child,  and  the  sea  that'll  moan  like  a  man  ? 

XV, 

Election,  Election  and  Reprobation — it's  all  very  well. 

But  I  go  to-night  to  my  boy,  and  I  shall  not  find  him  in  Hell. 

For  I  cared  so  much  for  my  boy  that  the  Lord  has  look'd  into  my  care, 

And  He  means  me  I'm  sure  to  be  happy  with  Willy,  I  know  not  where. 

XVI. 

And  if  he  be  lost — but  to  save  my  soul,  that  is  all  your  desire ; 
Do  you  think  that  I  care  for  my  soul  if  my  boy  be  gone  to  the  fire  ? 
I  have  been  with  God  in  the  dark — go,  go,  you  may  leave  me  alone — 
You  never  have  borne  a  child — you  are  just  as  hard  as  a  stone. 

XVII. 
Madam,  I  beg  your  pardon  !     I  think  that  you  mean  to  be  kind, 
But  I  cannot  hear  what  you  say  for  my  Willy's  voice  in  the  wind — 
The  snow  and  the  sky  so  bright — he  used  but  to  call  in  the  dark, 
And  he  calls  to  me  now  from  the  church  and  not  from  the  gibbet — for  hark  ! 
Nay — you  can  hear  it  yourself — it  is  coming — shaking  the  walls — 
Willy — the  moon's  in  a  cloud Good  night.     I  am  going.     He  calls. 


THE   NORTHERN   COBBLER. 

I. 
Waait  till  our  Sally  cooms  in,  fur  thou  mun  a'  sights  to  tell.* 
Eh,  but  I  be  maain  glad  to  seea  tha  sa  'arty  an'  well. 
'  Cast  awaay  on  a  disolut  land  wi'  a  vartical  soon  ! '  f 
Strange  fur  to  goa  fur  to  think  what  saailors  a'  seean  an'  a'  doon  ; 

*  Summat  to  drink — sa'  'ot  ?  '     I  'a  nowt  but  Adam's  wine  ; 
What's  the  'eat  o'  this  little  'ill-side  to  the  'eat  o'  the  line? 

II. 

*  What's  i'  tha  bottle  a-stanning  theer  ? '     I'll  tell  tha.     Gin. 
But  if  thou  wants  thy  grog,  tha  mun  goa  fur  it  down  to  the  inn. 
Naay — fur  I  be  maain  glad,  but  thaw  tha  was  iver  sa  dry, 
Thou  gits  naw  gin  fro'  the  bottle  theer,  an'  I'll  tell  tha  why. 

♦  The  vowels  di,  pronounced  separately  though  in  the  closest  conjunction,  best  render  th« 
!.( und  of  the  long  /  and y  in  this  dialect.  But  since  such  words  as  cra'iiti ,  datin\  wha'i^  ai  {V\ 
vScc,  look  awkward  except  in  a  page  of  express  phonetics,  I  have  thought  it  better  to  leave  th* 
simple  /  and  y,  and  to  trust  that  my  readers  will  give  them  the  broader  pronunciation. 

t  The  00  short,  as  in  '  wood.' 


THE  NORTHERN  COBBLER.  693 


III. 
Mea  an'  thy  sister  was  married,  when  wur  it  ?  back-end  o'  June, 
Ten  year  sin',  and  wa  'greed  as  well  as  a  fiddle  i'  tune  : 
I  could  fettle  and  clump  owd  booots  and  shoes  wi'  the  best  on  'em  all, 
As  fer  as  fro'  Thursby  thurn  hup  to  Harmsby  and  Hutterby  Hall. 
We  was  busy  as  beeas  i'  the  bloom  an'  as  'appy  as  'art  could  think, 
An'  then  the  babby  wur  burn,  and  then  I  taakes  to  the  drink. 

IV. 

An'  I  weant  gaainsaay  it,  my  lad,  thaw  I  be  hafe  shaamed  on  it  now, 
We  could  sing  a  good  song  at  the  Plow,  we  could  sing  a  good  song  at  the 

Plow; 
Thaw  once  of  a  frosty  night  I  slither'd  an'  hurted  my  buck,* 
An'  I  coom'd  neck-an-crop  soometimes  slaape  down  i'  the  squad  an'  the 

muck  : 
An'  once  I  fowt  wi'  the  Taailor — not  hafe  ov  a  man,  my  lad — 
Fur  he  scrawm'd  an'  scratted  my  faace  like  a  cat,  an'  it  maade  'er  sa  mad 
That  Sally  she  turn'd  a  tongue-banger,  f  an'  raated  ma,  '  Sottin'  thy  braains 
Guzzlin'  an'  soakin'  an'  smoakin'  an'  hawmin'  \  about  i'  the  laanes, 
Soa  sow-droonk  that  tha  doesn  not  touch  thy  'at  to  the  Squire ; ' 
An'  I  loooked  cock-eyed  at  my  noase  an'  I  seead  'im  a-gittin'  o'  fire  : 
But  sin'  I  wur  hallus  i'  liquor,  an'  hallus  as  droonk  as  a  king, 
Foalks'  coostom  flitted  awaay  like  a  kite  wi'  a  brokken  string. 


An'  Sally  she  wesh'd  foalks'  cloaths  to  keep  the  wolf  fro'  the  door, 
Eh  but  the  moor  she  riled  me,  she  druv  me  to  drink  the  moor. 
Fur  I  fun',  when  'er  back  wur  turn'd,  wheer  Sally's  owd  stockin'  wur  'id, 
An'  I  grabb'd  the  munny  she  maade,  and  I  wcar'd  it  o'  liquor,  I  did. 

VI. 

An'  one  night  I  cooms  'oam  like  a  bull  gotten  loose  at  a  faair. 

An'  she  wur  a-waiiitin'  fo'mma,  an'  cryin'  an'  team'  'er  'aair. 

An'  Y  tummled  athurt  the  craadle  an'  swear'd  as  I'd  break  ivry  stick 

O'  furniture  'ere  i'  the  'ouse,  an'  I  gied  our  Sally  a  kick. 

An'  I  maash'd  the  taables  an'  chairs,  an'  she  an'  the  babby  beal'dj^ 

Fur  I  knaw'd  naw  moor  what  I  did  nor  a  mortal  beast  o'  the  feald. 


An'  when  I  waaked  i'  the  murnin'  I  seead  that  our  Sally  went  laiimed 
Cos'  o'  the  kick  as  I  gied  'er,  an'  I  wur  dreadful  ashaiimed  ; 
An'  Sally  wur  sloomy  |  an'  draggle-taail'd  in  an  owd  turn  gown, 
An  the  babby's  faace  wurn't  wesh'd  an'  the  'ole  'ouse  hup-side  down. 

VIII. 

An'  then  I  minded  our  Sally  sa  prafty  an'  neat  an'  sweeat, 
Straat  as  a  pole  an'  clean  as  a  flower  fro'  'ead  to  feeat  : 


*  Hip.  t  Scold.  X  Lounging. 

§  IJellowcd,  cried  out.  II  Sluggish,  out  of  spirits. 


694  THE  NORTHERN  COBBLER. 


An'  then  I  minded  the  fust  kiss  I  gied  'er  by  Thursby  thurn  ; 
Theer  wur  a  lark  a-singin'  'is  best  of  a  Sunday  at  murn, 
Couldn't  see  'im,  we  'eard  'im  a-mountin'  oop  'igher  an'  'igher, 
An'  then  'e  turn'd  to  the  sun,  an'  'e  shined  like  a  sparkle  o'  fire. 
'  Doesn't  tha  see  'im,'  she  axes,  '  fur  I  can  see  'im  ? '  an'  I 
Seead  nobbut  the  smile  o'  the  sun  as  danced  in  'er  pratty  blue  eye ; 
An'  I  says  *  I  mun  gie  tha  a  kiss,'  an'  Sally  says  *  Noa,  thou  moant,* 
But  I  gied  'er  a  kiss,  an'  then  anoother  an'  Sally  says  *  doant  ! ' 

IX. 

An'  when  we  coom'd  into  Meeatin',  at  fust  she  wur  all  in  a  tew. 
But,  arter,  we  sing'd  the  'ymn  togither  like  birds  on  a  beugh ; 
An'  Muggins  'e  preach'd  o'  Hell -fire  an'  the  loov  o'  God  fur  men. 
An'  then  upo'  coomin'  awaiiy  Sally  gied  me  a  kiss  ov  'ersen. 

X. 
Heer  wur  a  fall  fro'  a  kiss  to  a  kick  like  Saatan  as  fell 
Down  out  o'  heaven  i'  Hell-fire — thaw  theer's  naw  drinkin'  i'  Hell ; 
Mea  fur  to  kick  our  Sally  as  kep'  the  wolf  fro'  the  door, 
All  along  o'  the  drink,  fur  I  loov'd  'er  as  well  as  afoor. 

XI. 

Sa  like  a  graat  num-cumpus  I  blubber'd  awaay  o'  the  bed — 

*  Weant  niver  do  it  naw  moor;'  an'  Sally  loookt  up  an'  she  said, 

*  I'll  upowd  it  *  tha  weant ;  thou'rt  laike  the  rest  o'  the  men, 
Thou'll  goa  sniffin'  about  the  tap  till  tha  does  it  agean. 
Theer's  thy  hennemy,  man,  an'  I  knaws,  as  knaws  tha  sa  well. 
That,  if  tha  seeas  'im  an'  smells  'im  tha'll  foller  'im  slick  into  Hell.' 


'  Naay,'  says  I,  *fur  I  weant  goa  sniffin'  about  the  tap.' 

'  Weant  tha  ?  '  she  says,  an'  mysen  I  thowt  i'  mysen  mayhap. 

*  Noa : '  an'  I  started  awaay  like  a  shot,  an'  down  to  the  Hinn, 

An'  I  browt  what  tha  seeas  stannin'  theer,  yon  big  black  bottle  o'  gin. 

XIII. 

*  That  caps  owt,'  f  says  Sally,  an'  saw  she  begins  to  cry. 
But  I  puts  it  into  'er  'ands,  an'  I  says  to  'er,  *  Sally,'  says  I, 

*  Stan'  'im  theer  i'  the  naame  o'  the  Lord  an'  the  power  ov  'is  Graace, 
Stan'  'im  theer,  fur  I'll  loook  my  hennemy  strait  i'  the  faiice, 

Stan'  'm  theei-  i'  the  winder,  an'  let  ma  loook  at  'im  then, 
'E  seeams  naw  moor  nor  watter,  an'  'e's  the  Divil's  oan  sen.' 

XIV. 

An'  I  wur  down  i'  tha  mouth,  couldn't  do  naw  work  an'  all. 
Nasty  an'  snaggy  an'  shaaky,  an'  poonch'd  my  'and  wi'  the  hawl, 
But  she  wur  a  power  o'  coomfut,  an'  sattled  'ersen  o'  my  knee. 
An'  coax'd  an'  coodled  me  oop  till  agean  I  feel'd  mysen  free. 

*  I'll  uphold  it.  t  That's  beyond  every  thing. 


THE  NORTHERN  COBBLER.  695 


An'  Sally  she  tell'd  it  about,  and  foalk  stood  a-gawmin'  *  in, 

As  thaw  it  wur  summat  bewitch'd  istead  of  a  quart  o'  gin  ; 

An'  some  on  'em  said  it  wur  watter — an'  1  wur  chousin'  the  wife, 

Fur  I  couldn't  'owd  'ands  off  gin,  wur  it  nobbut  to  saavemy  life  ; 

An'  blacksmith  'e  strips  me  the  thick  ov  'is  airni,  an'  'e  shaws  it  to  me, 

'  Feeal  thou  this  !  thou  can't  graw  this  upo'  watter  ! '  says  he. 

An'  Doctor  'e  calls  o'  Sunday  an'  just  as  caudles  was  lit, 

'Thou  moant  do  it,'  he  says,  *  tha  mun  break  'im  off  bit  by  bit.* 

'  Thou'rt  but  a  Methody-man,'  says  Parson,  and  laays  down  'is  'at, 

An'  'e  points  to  the  bottle  o'  gin,  'but  I  respecks  tha  fur  that ;' 

An'  Squire,  his  oan  very  sen,  walks  down  fro'  the  'All  to  see, 

An'  'e  spanks  'is  'and  into  mine,  *  fur  I  respecks  tha,'  says  'e  ; 

An'  coostom  agean  draw'd  in  like  a  wind  fro'  far  an'  wide, 

An'  browt  me  the  booots  to  be  cobbled  fro'  hafe  the  coontryside. 

XVI. 

An'  theer  'e  stans  an'  theer  *e  shall  stan  to  my  dying  daay  ; 

I  'a  gotten  to  loov  'im  agean  in  anoother  kind  of  a  waay, 

Proud  on  'im,  like,  my  lad,  an'  I  keeaps  'im  clean  an'  bright, 

Loovs  'im,  an  roobs  'im,  an'  doosts  'im,  an'  puts  'im  back  i'  the  light. 

XVII. 

Wouldn't  a  pint  a'  sarved  as  well  as  a  quart  ?     Naw  doubt : 

But  I  liked  a  bigger  feller  to  fight  wi'  an'  fowt  it  out. 

Fine  an'  meller  'e  mun  be  by  this,  if  I  cared  to  taaste. 

But  I  moant,  my  lad,  and  I  weant,  fur  I'd  feeal  raysen  clean  disgraaced. 

XVIII. 

An'  once  I  said  to  the  Missis,  *  My  lass,  when  I  cooms  to  die; 
Smash  the  bottle  to  smithex^s,  the  Divil's  in  'im,'  said  I. 
But  arter  I  chaanged  my  mind,  an'  if  Sally  be  left  aloan, 
I'll  hev  'im  a-buried  wi'mma  an'  taake  'im  afoor  the  Throan. 

XIX. 

Coom  thou  'eer — yon  laady  a-steppin'  along  the  streeat, 
Doesn't  tha  knaw  'er — sa  pratty,  an'  feat,  an'  neat,  an'  sweeat  ? 
Look  at  the  cloaths  on  'er  back,  thebbe  ammost  spick-span  new. 
An'  Tommy's  faiice  is  as  fresh  as  a  codlin  'at's  wesh'd  i'  the  dew. 

XX. 
'Ere's  our  Sally  an'  Tommy,  an'  we  be  a-goin'  to  dine, 
Baacon  and  taates,  an'  a  beslings-puddin'  f  an'  Adam's  wine  ; 
But  if  tha  wants  ony  grog  tha  mun  goa  fur  it  down  to  the  Hinn, 
Fur  I  weant  shed  a  drop  on  'is  blood,  noa,  not  fur  Sally's  oan  kin. 

*  Staring  vacantly. 

t  A  pudding  made  with  the  first  milk  of  the  kow  after  calving. 


696 


THE  SISTERS. 


THE  SISTERS. 

They   have   left   the  doors  ajar ;    and 

by  their  clash, 
And   prelude    on    the    keys,    I   know 

the  song, 
Their    favorite — which    I    call    *  The 

Tables  Turned.' 
Evelyn  begins  it  '  O  diviner  Air.' 

EVELYN. 

O  diviner  Air, 

Thro'  the  heat,  the  drowth,  the  dust, 

the  glare. 
Far  from  out  the  west  in  shadowing 

showers, 
Over   all    the   meadow   baked    and 

bare, 
Making  fresh  and  fair 
All  the  bowers  and  the  flowers, 
Fainting  flowers,  faded  bowers. 
Over  all  this  weary  world  of  ours. 
Breathe,  diviner  Air  ! 

A  sweet  voice  that — you  scarce  could 

better  that. 
Now  follows  Edith  echoing  Evelyn. 

EDITH. 

O  diviner  Light, 

Thro'  the  cloud  that  roofs  our  noon 

with  night, 
Thro'  the  blotting  mist,  the  blinding 

showers, 
Far  from  out  a  sky  forever  bright, 
Over    all    the    woodland's    flooded 

bowers. 
Over   all    the   meadow's    drowning 

flowers. 
Over  all  this  ruin'd  world  of  ours, 
Break,  diviner  Light  ! 

Marvellously    like,    their   voices — and 

themselves ! 
Tho'  one  is  somewhat  deeper  than  the 

other, 
As  one  is  somewhat  graver  than  the 

other — 
Edith  than  Evelyn.     Your  good  Uncle, 

whom 


You  count  the  father  of  your  fortune, 
longs 

For  this  alliance  ;   let  me  ask  you  theuj 

Which  voice  most  takes  you  ?  for  I  do 
not  doubt, 

Being  a  watchful  parent,  you  are  taken 

With  one  or  other  :  tho'  sometimes  I 
fear 

You  may  be  flickering,  fluttering  in  a 
doubt 

Between  the  two — which  must  not  be 
— which  might 

Be  death  to  one :  they  both  are  beauti- 
ful : 

Evelyn  is  gayer,  wittier,  prettier,  says 

The  common  voice,  if  one  may  trust  it : 
she  ? 

No  !  but  the  paler  and  the  graver, 
Edith. 

Woo  her  and  gain  her  then  :  no  waver- 
ing, boy  ! 

The  graver  is  perhaps  the  one  for  you 

Who  jest  and  laugh  so  easily  and  so 
well. 

For  love  will  go  by  contrast,  as  l)y 
likes. 

No    sisters   ever   prized    each    other 

more. 
Not    so:   their   mother  and   her  sister 

loved 
More  passionately  still. 

But  that  my  best 
And  oldest  friend,  your  Uncle,  wishes 

it,  [way 

And    that  I    know   you  worthy  every 
To  be  my  son,  I  might,  perchance,  be 

loath  [yet  one 

To  part  them,  or  part  from  them  :  and 
Should  marry,  or  all  the  broad  lands  in 

your  view 
From    this    bay    window — which   our 

house  has  held 
Three  hundred  years — will  pass  collat- 
erally. 

My  father    with    a   child   on    either 
knee, 
A  hand  upon  the  head  of  either  child. 


THE  SISTERS. 


697 


Smoothing  their  locks,  as  golden  as  his 

own 
Were  silver,  *  get  them  wedded '  would 

he  say. 
And   once   my  prattling   Edith   ask'd 

him  '  why  ?  ' 
Ay,  why  ?  said  he,  '  for  why  should  I 

go  lame  ? ' 
Then  told  them  of  his  wars,  and  of  his 

wound. 
For   see — this  wine — the  grape   from 

whence  it  flow'd 
Was  blackening  on  the  slopes  of  Port- 
ugal, 
When   that   brave   soldier,   down   the 

terrible  ridge 
Plunged   in   the   last  fierce  charge   at 

Waterloo, 
And   caught   the   laming   bullet.     He 

left  me  this,  [youth, 

Which  yet   retains   a   memory  of  its 
As  I  of  mine,  and  my  first   passion. 

Come  ! 
Here's  to  your  happy  union  with  my 

child  ! 

Yet  must  you  change  your  name :  no 

fault  of  mine  ! 
You  say  that  you  can  do  it  as  willingly 
As  birds  make  ready  for  their  bridal- 
time 
By  change  of  feather  :  for  all  that,  my 

boy. 
Some  birds  are  sick  and  sullen  when 

they  molt. 
An  old  and  worthy  name  !  but  mine 

that  stirr'd 
Among  our  civil  wars  and  earlier  too 
Among  the  Roses,  the  more  venerable. 
/  care  not  for  a  name — no  fault   of 

mine. 
Once  more — a  happier  marriage  than 

my  own  ! 

You  see  yon  Lombard  poplar  on  the 

plain. 
The  highway  running   by   it   leaves  a 

breadth  [^.go, 

Of  sward  to  left  and  right,  where,  long 


One  bright  May  morning   in  a  world 

of  song, 
I  lay  at  leisure,  watching  overhead 
The   aerial    poplar    wave,    an    amber 

spire. 

I  dozed  ;  I  woke.    An  open  landaulet 
Whirl' d   by,  which,  after  it  had  past 

me,  show'd, 
Turning  my  way,  the  loveliest  face  on 

earth. 
The  face  of  one  there  sitting  opposite. 
On  whom  I  brought  a  strange  unhap- 

pin  ess, 
That  time  I  did  not  see. 

Love  at  first  sight 
May   seem — with    goodly    rhyme    and 

reason  for  it — 
Possible — at   first  glimpse,   and  for   a 

face 
Gone    in    a    moment — strange.      Yet 

once,  when  first 
I  came  on  Lake  Llanberris  in  the  dark, 
A    moonless    night    with    storm — one 

lightning- fork 
Flash'd  out  the  lake  ;  and  tho'  I  loiter'd 

there 
The  full  day  after,  yet  in  retrospect 
That   less    than   momentary   thunder- 
sketch  [day. 
Of  lake  and  mountain  conquers  all  the 

The  Sun  himself  has  limn'd  the  face 

for  me. 
Not  quite  so  quickly,  no,  nor  half  as 

well. 
For  look  you  here — the  shadows  are 

too  deep. 
And  like  the  critic's  blurring  comment 

make 
The  veriest  beauties  of  the  work  appear 
The   darkest    faults :    the    sweet    eyes 

frown  :   the  lips 
Seem  but  a  gash.     My  sole  memorial 
Of  Edith — no,  the  other, — both  indeed. 

So  that  bright  face  was  flash'd  thro' 

sense  and  soul  [found 

And    by   the  poplar   vanish'd-  -to    be 


Long  after,  as  it  seem'd,  beneath  the 

tall 
Tree-bowers,  and  those  long-sweeping 

beechen  boughs 
Of  our  New  Forest.    I  was  there  alone : 
The  phantom  of  the  whirling  landaulet 
Forever  past  me  by :  when  one  quick 

peal 
Of  laughter  drew  me  thro'  the  glim- 
mering glades 
Down  to   the   snowlike   sparkle   of   a 
cloth  [again, 

On  fern  and   foxglove.     Lo,  the  face 
My  Rosalind  in  this  Arden — Edith — all 
One  bloom   of  youth,   health,  beauty, 
happiness,  [jest. 

And  moved  to  merriment  at  a  passing 

There  one  of  those  about  her  know- 
ing me 
Call'd  me  to  join  them ;  so  with  these 

I  spent 
What  seem'd   my  crowning   hour,  my 

day  of  days, 
I  woo'd  her  then,  nor  unsuccessfully, 
The   worse    for   her,    for   me !    was   I 

content  ? 
Ay — no,  not  quite ;  for  now  and  then  I 

thought 
Laziness,      vague     love-longings,     the 

bright  May, 
Had  made  a  heated  haze  to  magnify 
The   charm    of    Edith — that   a  mail's 

ideal 
Is   high  in  'Heaven,  and   lodged  with 

Plato's  God, 
Not  findable   here — content,   and  not 

content. 
In  some  such  fashion  as  a  man  may  be 
That   having   had   the  portrait  of  his 

friend  [says, 

Drawn   by  an  artist,  looks  at   it,  and 
'  Good  !  very  like  !  not  altogether  he.' 

As  yet  I  had  not  bound  myself  by 

words, 
Only,  believing  I  loved  Edith,  made 
Edith   love   me.     Then  came  the  day 

when  I, 


Flattering  myself  that  all  my  doubts 

were  fools 
Born  of  the  fool  this  Age  that  doubts 

of  ail- 
Not   I    that   day   of    Edith's   love   or 

mine — 
Had  braced  my  purpose  to  declare  my- 
self: 
I  stood  upon  the  stairs  of  Paradise. 
The  golden  gates  would  open  at  a  word. 
I    spoke  it — told   her   of  my  passion, 

seen 
And  lost  and  found  again,  had  got  so 

far, 
Had  caught  her  hand,  her  eyelids  fell — 

I  heard 
Wheels,  and  a  noise  of  welcome  at  the 

doors — 
On  a  sudden,  after  two  Italian  years 
Had  set  the  blossom  of  her  health  again, 
The  younger  sister,  Evelyn,  enter'd — 

there, 
There  was  the  face,  and  altogether  she. 
The  mother  fell  about  the  daughter's 

neck,  [arms. 

The   sisters   closed    in   one    another's 
Their  people  throng' d  about  them  from 

the  hall. 
And  in  the  thick  of  question  and  reply 
I  fled  the  house,  driven  by  one  angel 

face. 
And  all  the  Furies. 

I  was  bound  to  her  ; 
I   could   not  free   myself   in   honoi* — 

bound 
Not  by  the  sounded  letter  of  the  word, 
But  counter-pressures   of   the   yielded 

hand 
That    timorously   and   faintly   echoed 

mine,  [her  eyes 

Quick  blushes,  the  sweet  dwelling  of 
Upon  me  when  she  thought  I  did  not 

see — 
Were  these  not  bonds  ?  nay,  nay,  but 

could  I  wed  her 
Loving  the  other  ?    do  her  that  great 

wrong  ?  [morn  ? 

Had  I  not  dream'd  I  loved  her  yester- 


THE  SISTERS. 


699 


Had  I  not  known  where  Love,  at  first 

a  fear, 
Grew  after  marriage  to  full  height  and 

form  ? 
Yet    after   marriage,   that  mock-sister 

there —  [it — 

Brother-in-law — the   fiery  nearness  of 
Unlawful  and  disloyal  brotherhood — 
What   end   but  darkness  could   ensue 

from  this  [jarr'd 

For  all  the  three  ?  So  Love  and  Honor 
Tho'   Love  and  Honor  join'd  to  raise 

the  full 
High-tide  of  doubt  that  sway'd  me  up 

and  down 
Advancing  nor  retreating. 

Edith  wrote : 
*  My  mother  bids  me  ask '  (I  did  not 

tell  you — 
A  widow  with  less  guile  than  many  a 

child. 
God  help  the  wrinkled  children  that  are 

Christ's 
As    well    as    the    plump    cheek — she 

wrought  us  harm. 
Poor  soul,  not  knowing)  '  are  you  ill  ?  ' 

(so  ran 
The  letter)  'you  have  not  been  here  of 

late. 
You  will  not  find  me  here.  At  last  I  go 
On  that   long-promised   visit    to    the 

North. 
I  told  your  way  side  story  to  my  mother 
And    Evelyn.     She    remembers    you. 

Farewell 
Pray  come  and  see  my  mother.   Almost 

blind 
With  ever-growing  cataract,   yet   she 

thinks 
She  sees  you  when  she  hears.      Again 

farewell.' 

Cold  words  from  one  I   had  hoped 

to  warm  so  far 
That  I  could  stamp  my  image  on   her 

heart  ! 
•■  Pray  come  and  see  my  mother    and 

farewell.' 


Cold,  but  as  welcome  as  free  airs  of 

heaven 
After  a  dungeon's  closeness.     Selfish, 

strange  ! 
What  dwarfs  are  men  !  my  strangled 

vanity  [self 

Utter'd  a  stifled  cry — to  have  vext  my- 
And  all  in  vain  for  her — cold  heart  or 

none — 
No  bride  for  me.     Yet  so  my  path  was 

clear 
To  win  the  sister. 

Whom  I  woo'd  and  won. 

For  Evelyn  knew  not'  of  my  former 

suit,  [upon 

Because    the    simple    mother    work'd 

By  Edith  pray'd  me  not  to  whisper  of 

it.  • 

And  Edith  would  be  bridesmaid  on  the 
day. 

But  on  that  day,  not  being  all  at  ease, 

I  from  the  altar  glancing  back  upon 
her. 

Before  the  first  *  I  will '  was  utter'd 
saw 

The  bridesmaid  pale,  statuclike,  pas- 
sionless— 

'  No  harm,  no  harm '  I  turn'd  again, 
and  placed 

My  ring  upon  the  finger  of  my  bride. 

So,  when  we  parted,  Edith  spoke  no 
word, 
She    wept    no    tear,     but    round    my 

Evelyn  clung 
In  utter  silence  for  so  long,  I  thought 
*  What  !  will  she  never  set  her  sister 
free  ? ' 

We  left  her,  happy  each  in  each,  and 

then, 
As  tho'  the  happiness  of  each  in  each 
Were    not    enough,    must    fain    have 

torrents,  lakes, 
Hills,  the  great  things  of  Nature  and 

the  fair. 
To  lift  us  as  it  were  from  commonplace, 


700 


THE  SISTERS. 


And  help  us  to  our  joy.      Better  have 
sent 

Our  Edith  thro'  the  glories  of  the  earth, 

To  change  with  her  horizon,  if  true 
Love 

"Were  not  his  ovi^n  imperial  all-in-all. 
Far  off  yio.  went.     My  God,  I  would 
not  live 

Save  that  I  think  this  gross  hard-seem- 
ing world 

Is  our  misshaping  vision  of  the  Powers 

Behind  the  world,  that  make  our  griefs 
our  gains. 

For  on  the  dark  night  of  our  mar- 
riage-day 
The  great  Tragedian,  that  hadquench'd 

herself 
In^hat  assumption  of  the  bridesmaid 

— she 
That  loved  me — our  true  Edith — her 

brain  broke 
With  over-acting,  till  she  rose  and  fled 
Beneath  a  pitiless  rush  of  Autumn  rain 
To  the  deaf  church — to  be  let  in — to 
pray  [there 

Before   that    altar — so   I    think ;    and 
They  found  her  beating  the  hard  Prot- 
estant doors. 
She  died  and  she  was  buried  ere  we 
knew. 

I  learnt  it  first.     I  had  to  speak.     At 
once 
The  bright  quick  smile  of  Evelyn,  that 
had  sunn'd  [away: 

The  morning  of  our  marriage,  past 
And  on  our  home-return  the  daily  want 
Of  Edith  in  the  house,  the  garden,  still 
Haunted  us  like  her  ghost ;  and  by  and 

by, 

Either  from  that  necessity  for  talk 
Which  lives  with  blindness,   or  plain 

innocence 
Of  nature,  or  desire  that  her  lost  child 
Should  earn  from  both   the  praise  of 

heroism. 
The  mother  broke  her  promise  to  the 

dead. 


And  told  the  living  daughter  with  what 

love 
Edith  had  welcomed  my  short  wooing 

of  her, 
And    all   her    sweet    self-sacrifice   and 

death. 

Henceforth  that  mystic  bond  betwixt 

the  twins — 
Did  I  not  tell  you  they  were  twins  ? — 

prevail'd 
So  far  that  no  caress  could  win  my  wife 
Back  to  that  passionate  answer  of  full 

heart  [love, 

I  had  from  her  at  first.      Not  that  her 
Tho'  scarce  as  great  as  Edith's  power 

of  love, 
Had  lessen'd,  but  the  mother's  garru- 
lous wail 
Forever  woke  the  unhappy  Past  again, 
Till  that  dead  bridesmaid,  meant  to  be 

my  bride. 
Put  forth  cold  hands  between  us,  and  I 

fear'd  [chill'd ; 

The  very  fountains   of  her   life  were 
So  took  her  thence,  and  brought  her 

here,  and  here 
She  bore  a  child,  whom  reverently  we 

call'd 
Edith  ;  and  in  the  second  year  was  born 
A  second — this  I  named  from  her  own 

self, 
Evelyn  ;  then  two  weeks — no  more — 

she  joined. 
In  and  beyond  the  grave,  that  one  she 

loved. 
Now  in  this  quiet  of  declining  life, 
Thro'  dreams  by  night  and  trances  of 

the  day. 
The   sisters   glide  about    me   hand  in 

hand. 
Both  beautiful  alike,  nor  can  I  tell 
One  from  the  other,  no,  nor  care  to  tell 
One  from  the  other,   only  know  they 

come. 
They  smile  upon  me,  till,  remembering 

all 
The  love  they  both  have  borne  me.  and 

the  love 


THE  VILLAGE  WIFE;  OR,  THE  ENTAIL, 


701 


I  bore  them  both — divided  as  I  am 
From   either    by    the   stillness   of  the 
grave —  [best. 

I  know  not  which  of  these  I  love  the 

But  yoti  love    Edith ;    and  her  own 

true  eyes 
Are  traitors  to  her  ;  our  quick  Evelyn — 
The  merrier,  prettier,   wittier,  as  they 

talk, 


And  not  without  good  reason,  my  good 

son —  [both 

Is  yet  untouch'd :   and  I  that  hold  them 

Dearest  of  all  things — well,  I  am  not 

sure — 
But   if   there   lie   a   preference   eithei 

way, 
And  in  the  rich  vocabulary  of  Love 
'  Most  dearest  *  be  a  true  superlative— 
I  think  /  likewise  love  your  Edith  most. 


THE   VILLAGE    WIFE;   OR,    THE   ENTAIL.* 


OusE-KEEPER  sent  tha  my  lass,  fur  new  Squire  coom'd  last  night, 
Butter  an'  heggs — yis — yis.     I'll  goa  wi'  tha  back  :  all  right ; 
Butter  I  warrants  be  prime,  an'  I  warrants  the  heggs  be  as  well, 
Hafe  a  pint  o'  milk  runs  out  when  ya  breaks  the  shell. 


Sit  thysen  down  fur  a  bit :  hev  a  glass  o'  cowslip  wine  ! 

I  liked  the  owd  Squire  an'  'is  gells  as  thaw  they  was  gells  o'  mine, 

Fur  then  we  was  all  es  one,  the  Squire  an'  'is  darters  an'  me, 

Hall  but  Miss  Annie,  the  heldest,  I  niver  not  took  to  she  : 

But  Nelly,  the  last  of  the  cletch,f  I  liked  'er  the  fust  on  'em  all. 

Fur  hoffens  we  talkt  o'  my  darter  es  died  o'  the  fever  at  fall : 

An'  I  thowt  'twur  the  will  o'  the  Lord,  but  Miss  Annie  she  said  it  wur 

draains, 
Fur  she  hedn't  naw  coornfut  in  'er,  an'  arn'd  naw  thanks  fur  'er  paains. 
Eh  !  thebbe  all  wi'  the  Lord  my  childer,  I  han't  gotten  none  ! 
Sa  new  Squire's  coom'd  wi'  'is  taail  in  'is  'and,  an'  owd  Squire's  gone. 


Fur  staate  be  i'  taail,  my  lass  :  tha  dosn'  knaw  what  that  be  ? 
But  I  knaws  the  law,  I  does,  for  the  lawyer  ha  towd  it  me. 
*  When  theer's  naw  'ead  to  a  Ouse  by  the  fault  o'  that  ere  maale — 
The  gells  they  counts  fur  nowt,  and  the  next  un  he  taakes  the  taail.' 


IV. 
What  be  the  next  un  like  ?  can  tha  tell  ony  harm  on  '  im  lass  ? — 
Naay  sit  down — naw  'urry — sa  cowd  ! — hev  another  glass  ! 
Straange  an'  cowd  fur  the  tinft  !  we  may  happen  a  fall  o^  snaw — 
Not  es  I  cares  fur  to  hear  ony  harm,  but  I  likes  to  knaw. 
An'  I  'oaps  es  'e  beant  booaklarn'd  :  but  'e  dosn'  not  coom  fro'  the  shere 
We'd  anew  o'  that  wi'  the  Squire,  an'  we  haates  booaklarnin'  ere. 


♦  See  note  to  '  Northern  Cobbler.' 


t  A  brood  of  chiekens. 


702  THE  VILLAGE  WIFE;  OR,  THE  ENTAIL. 


Fur  Squire  wur  a  Varsity  scholard,  an'  niver  lookt  arter  the  land — 
Whoats  or  turmuts  or  taates — 'e  'ed  hallus  a  boook  i'  'is  'and, 
Hallus  aioan  wi'  'is  boooks,  thaw  nigh  upo'  seventy  year. 
An'  boooks,  what's  boooks  ?  thou  knaws  thebbe  neyther  'ere  nor  theer. 

VI, 

An'  the  gells,  they  hedn't  naw  taails,  an'  the  lawyer  he  towd  ic  me 

That  'is  taail  were  soa  tied  up  es  he  couldn't  cut  down  a  tree  ! 

*  Drat  the  trees,'  says  I,  to  be  sewer  I  haates  'em,  my  lass, 

Fur  we  puts  the  muck  o'  the  land,  an'  they  sucks  the  muck  fro'  the  grass„ 

VII. 

An'  Squire  wur  hallus  a-smilin',  an'  gied  to  the  tramps  goin'  by — 

An'  all  o'  the  wust  i'  the  parish — wi'  hoffens  a  drop  in  'is  eye. 

An'  ivry  darter  o'  Squire's  hed  her  awn  ridin-erse  to  'ersen, 

An'  they  rampaged  about  wi'  their  grooms,  an'  was  'untin'  arter  the  men. 

An'  hallus  a-dallackt  *  an'  dizen'd  out,  an'  a-buyin'  new  cloathes, 

While  'e  sit  like  a  graat  glimmer-gowk  f  wi'  'is  glasses  athurt  'is  noase, 

An'  'is  noase  sa  grufted  wi'  snuff  as  it  couldn't  be  sci-oob'd  awaay. 

Fur  atween  is  reaadin'  and  writin'  'e  snifft  up  a  box  in  a  daay, 

An'  'e  niver  runn'd  arter  the  fox,  nor  arter  the  birds  wi'  'is  gun, 

An'  'e  niver  not  shot  one  'are,  but  'e  leaved  it  to  Charlie  'is  son, 

An'  'e  niver  not  fish'd  'is  awn  ponds,  but  Charlie  'e  cotch'd  the  pike, 

Fur  'e  warn't  not  burn  to  the  land,  an'  'e  didn't  take  kind  to  it  like  ; 

But  I  ears  es  'e'd  gie  fur  a  howry  \  owd  book  thutty  pound  an'  moor, 

An'  'e'd  wrote  an  owd  book,  his  awn  sen,  sa  I  knaw'd  es  'e'd  coom  to  be 

poor ; 
An'  'e  gied — I  be  fear'd  fur  to  tell  tha  'ow  much— fur  an  owd  scratted 

stoan, 
An'  'e  digg'd  up  a  loomp  i'  the  land  an'  'e  got  a  brown  pot  an'  a  boan. 
An'  'e  bowt  owd  money,  es  wouldn't  goii,  wi'  good  gowd  o'  the  Queen, 
An'  'e  bowt  little  statutes  all-naakt  an'  which  was  a  shaameg  to  be  seen ; 
But  'e  niver  loookt  ower  a  bill,  nor  'e  niver  not  seed  to  owt. 
An'  'e  niver  knawd  nowt  but  boooks,  an'  boooks,  as  thou  knaws,  beant 

nowt. 

VIII. 

But  owd  Squire's  laady  es  long  es  she  lived  she  kep'  'em  all  clear. 
Thaw  es  long  es  she  lived  I  niver  hed  none  of  'er  darters  'ere  ; 
But  arter  she  died  we  was  all  es  one,  the  childer  and  me, 
An'  sarvints  runn'd  in  an'  out,  an'  offens  we  hed  'em  to  tea. 
Lawk  !  'ow  I  laugh'd  when  the  lasses  'u(#talk  o'  their  Missis's  waays. 
An'  the  Missisis  talk'd  o'the  lasses. — I'll  tell  tha  some  o'  these  daiiys. 
Hoanly  Miss  Annie  were  saw  stuck  oop,  like  'er  mother  afoor — 
'Er  an'  'er  blessed  darter — they  niver  derken'd  my  door. 

*  Overdrest  in  gay  colorso  t  Owl.  %  Filthy. 


THE  VILLAGE  WIFE;  OR,  THE  ENTAIL.  70J 


IX. 

An'  Squire  'e  smiled  an'  'e  smiled  till  'e'd  gotten  a  fright  at  last, 
An'  'e  calls  fur  'is  son,  fur  the  'turney's  letters  they  follerM  sa  fast ; 
But  Squire  wur  afear'd  o'  'is  son,  an'  'e  says  to  'im,  meek  as  a  mouse, 
'  Lad,  thou  mun  cut  off  thy  taail,  or  the  gells  'uU  goa  to  the  'Ouse, 
Fur  I  finds  es  I  be  that  i'  debt,  es  I  'oaps  es  thou'll  'elp  me  a  bit, 
An'  if  thou'll  'gree  to  cut  off  thy  taail  I  may  saave  mysen  yit.* 

X. 

But  Charlie  'e  sets  back  'is  ears,  an'  'e  swears,  an'  'e  says  to  'im  Noa. 
'  I've  gotten  the  'staate  by  the  taail  an'  be  dang'd  if  I  iver  let  goa  ! 
Coom  !  coom  !  feyther,'  'e  says,  *  why  shouldn't  thy  boooks  be  sowd? 
I  hears  es  soom  o'  thy  boooks  mebbe  worth  their  weight  i'  gowd.' 

XI. 

Heaps  an'  heaps  o'  boooks,  I  ha'  see'd  'em,  belong'd  to  the  Squire, 
But  the  lasses  'ed  teard  out  leaves  i'  the  middle  to  kindle  the  fire; 
Sa  moast  on  'is  owd  big  boooks  fetch'd  nigh  to  nowt  at  the  saale. 
And  Squire  were  at  Charlie  agean  to  git  'im  to  cut  off  'is  taail. 

XII. 

Ya  wouldn't  find  Charlie's  likes — 'e  were  that  outdacious  at  'oam. 
Not  thaw  ya  went  fur  to  raake  out  Hell  wi'  a  small-tooth  coamb — 
Droonk  wi'  the  Quoloty's  wine,  an'  droonk  wi'  the  farmer's  aale, 
Mad  wi'  the  lasses  an'  all — an'  '  e  wouldn't  cut  off  the  taail. 

XIII. 

Thou's  coom'd  oop  by  the  beck;   and  a  thurn  be  a-grawin'  theer, 
I  niver  ha  seed  it  sa  white  wi'  the  Maay  es  I  see'd  it  to-year — 
Theerabouts  Charlie  joompt — and  it  gied  me  a  scare  tother  night. 
Fur  I  thowt  it  wur  Charlie's  ghoast  i'  the  derk,  fur  it  loookt  sa  white. 
*  Billy,'  says  'e,  *  hev  a  joomp  ! ' — thaw  the  banks  o'  the  beck  be  sa  higfe, 
Fur  he  ca'd  'is  'erse  Billy-rough -un,  thaw  niver  a  hair  wur  awry  j 
But  Billy  fell  bakkuds  o'  Charlie,  an'  Charlie  'e  brok  'is  neck, 
So  theer  wur  a  hend  o'  the  taail,  fur  'e  lost  'is  taail  i'  the  beck. 

XIV. 

Sa  'is  taail  wur  lost  an'  is  boooks  wur  gone  an'  'is  boy  wur  dead, 
An'  Squire  'e  smiled  an'  'e  smiled,  but  'e  niver  not  lift  oop  'is  ead : 
Hallus  a  soft  un  Squire  !  an'  'e  smiled,  fur  'e  hedn't  naw  friend, 
Sa  feyther  an'  son  was  buried  togither,  an'  this  wur  the  hend. 


An'  Parson  as  hesn't  the  call,  nor  the  mooney,  but  hes  the  pride, 

'E  reads  of  a  sewer  an'  sartan  'oap  o'  the  tother  side  ; 

But  I  beant  that  sewer  es  the  Lord,  howsiver  they  praay'd  an'  praay'd 

Lets  them  inter  'eaven  easy  es  leaves  their  debts  to  be  paaid. 

Siver  the  mou'ds  rattled  down  upo'  poor  owd  Squire  i'  the  wood, 

An'  I  cried  along  wi'  the  gells,  fur  they  weant  niver  coom  to  naw  good 


704  THE  VILLAGE  WIFE;  OR,  THE  ENTAIL. 


XVI. 

Fur  Molly  the  youngest  she  walkt  awaay  wi'  a  hofficer  lad, 

An'  nawbody  'eard  on  'er  sin,  sa  o'  coorse  she  be  gone  to  the  bad  ! 

An'  Lucy  wur  laame  o'  one  leg,  sweet-'arts  she  niver  'ed  none — 

Straange  an'  unheppen  *  Miss  Lucy  !  we  naiimed  her  *  Dot  an'  gaw  one ;  ' 

An'  Hetty  wur  weak  i'  the  hattics,  wi'out  ony  harm  i'  the  legs, 

An'  the  fever  'ed  baiiked  Jinny's  ead  as  bald  as  one  o'  them  heggs, 

An'  Nelly  wur  up  fro'  the  craadle  as  big  i'  the  mouth  as  a  cow, 

An'  saw  she  mun  hammergrate,f  lass,  or  she  weant  git  a  maate  onyhow  ! 

An'  es  fur  Miss  Annie  es  call'd  me  afoor  my  awn  foalks  to  my  faace 

*A  hirnoraat  village  wife  as  'ud  hev  to  be  larn'd  her  awn  plaace,' 

Hes  mr  Miss  Hannie  the  heldest  hes  now  be  a-grawin'  sa  howd, 

I  knaws  that  mooch  o'  shea,  es  it  beant  not  fit  to  be  towd  ! 

XVII. 

Sa  I  didn't  not  taake  it  kindly  ov  owd  Miss  Annie  to  saay 

Es  I  should  be  talkin'  agean  em,  es  soon  es  they  went  awaay, 

Fur,  lawks  !  'ow  I  cried  when  they  went,  an'   our  Nelly  she  gied  me  'el 

'and. 
Fur  I'd  ha'  done  owt  fur  the  Squire  an'  'is  gells  es  belong'd  to  the  landj 
Boooks,  es  I  said  afoor,  thebbe  neyther  'ere  nor  theer  ! 
But  I  sarved  'em  wi'  butter  an'  heggs  fur  huppuds  o'  twenty  year. 


An'  they  hailus  paiad  what  I  hax'd,  sa  I  hallus  deal'd  wi'  the  Hall, 

An'   they  knaw'd  what    butter   wur,    an'    they  knaw'd  what  a  hegg  wur 

an'  all ; 
Hugger-mugger  they  lived,  but  they  wasn't  that  easy  to  please, 
Till  I  gied  'em  Hinjian  curn,  an'  they  laaid  big  heggs  es  tha  seeas  ; 
An'  I  niver  puts  saame  X  i'  my  butter,  they  does  it  at  Willis's  farm, 
Taaste  another  drop  o'  the  wine — tweant  do  tha  naw  harm. 


Sa  new  Squire's  coom'd  wi'  'is  taail  in  'is  'and,  an'  ovvd  Squire's  gone  j 
I  heard  'im  a  roomlin'  by,  but  arter  my  nightcap  wur  on ; 
Sa  I  han't  clapt  eyes  on  'im  yit,  fur  he  coom'd  last  night  sa  laate — 
Pluksh  !  !  !  §  the  hens  i'  the  peas  !  why  didn't  tha  hesp  the  gaate  ? 

*  Ungainly,  awkward.  t  Emigrate.  %  Lard. 

%  A  cry  accompanied  by  a  clapping  of  hands  to  scare  trespassing  fowl. 


IN  THE  CHILDREN'S  HOSPITAL.  705 


IN  THE  CHILDREN'S  HOSPITAL. 

EMMIE. 
I. 

Our  doctor  had  call'd  in  another,  I  never  had  seen  him  before, 

But  he  sent  a  chill  to  my  heart  when  I  saw  him  come  in  at  the  door, 

Fresh  from  the  surgery- schools  of  France  and  of  other  lands — 

Harsh  red  hair,  big  voice,  big  chest,  big  merciless  hands  ! 

Wonderful  cures  he  had  done,  O  yes,  but  they  said  too  of  him 

(He  was  happier  using  the  knife  than  in  trying  to  save  the  limb, 

And  that  I  can  well  believe,  for  he  look'd  so  coarse  and  so  red, 

I  could  think  he  was  one  of  those  who  would  break  their  jests  on  the  dead. 

And  mangle  the  living  dog  that  had  loved  him  and  fawn'd  at  his  knee — 

Drench'd  with  the  hellish  oorali— that  ever  such  things  should  be  ! 


Here  was  a  boy — I  am  sure  that  some  of  our  children  would  die 

But  for  the  voice  of  Love,  and  the  smile,  and  the  comforting  eye — 

Here  was  a  boy  in  the  ward,  every  bone  seem'd  out  of  its  place — 

Caught  in  a  mill  and  crush'd — it  was  all  but  a  hopeless  case  : 

And  he  handled  him  gently  enough;  but  his  voice  and  his  face  were  not 

kind. 
And  it  was  but  a  hopeless  case,  he  had  seen  it  and  made  up  his  mind, 
And  he  said  to  me  roughly,  'The  lad  will  need  little  more  of  your  care.' 
'AH  the  more  need,'  I  told  him,  '  to  seek  the  Lord  Jesus  in  prayer ; 
They  are  all  his  children  here,  and  I  pray  for  them  all  as  my  own :  ' 
But  he  turn'd  to  me  'Ay,  good  woman,  can  prayer  set  a  broken  bone?* 
Then  he  mutter'd  half  to  himself,  but  I  know  that  I  heard  him  say, 
'  All  very  well — but  the  good  Lord  Jesus  has  had  his  day.' 

III. 
Had  ?  has  it  come  ?     It  has  only  dawn'd.     It  will  come  by  and  by. 
O  how  could  I  serve  in  the  wards  if  the  hope  of  the  world  were  a  lie  ? 
How  could  I  bear  with  the  sights  and  the  loathsome  smells  of  disease. 
But  that  He  said  '  Ye  do  it  to  me,  when  you  do  it  to  these '  ? 

IV, 

So  he  went.     And  we  past  to  this  ward  where  the  younger  children  are 

laid: 
Here  is  the  cot  of  our  orphan,  our  darling,  our  meek  little  maid ; 
Empty  you  see  just  now  !     We  have  lost  her  who  loved  her  so  much — 
Patient  of  pain  tho'  as  quick  as  a  sensitive  plant  to  the  touch ; 
Hers  was  the  prettiest  prattle,  it  often  moved  me  to  tears, 
Hers  was  the  gratefullest  heart  I  have  found  in  a  child  of  her  years — 
Nay,  you  remember  our  Emmie ;  you  used  to  send  her  the  flowers ; 
How  she  would  smile  at  'em,  play  with  'em,  talk  to  'em  hours  after  hours  ! 


7o6  IN  THE  CHILDREN'S  HOSPITAL. 


They  that  can  wander  at  will  where  the  works  of  the  Lord  are  reveal'd 
Little  guess  what  joy  can  be  got  from  a  cowslip  out  of  the  field  ; 
Flowers  to  these  '  spirits  in  prison '  are  all  they  can  know  of  the  spring, 
They  freshen  and  sweeten  the  wards  like  the  waft  of  an  Angel's  wing ; 
And  she  lay  with  a  flower  in  one  hand  and  her  thin  hands  crost  on  hei 

breast — 
Wan,  but  as  pretty  as  heart  can  desire,  and  we  thought  her  at  rest, 
Quietly  sleeping — so  quiet,  our  doctor  said  '  Poor  little  dear, 
Nurse,  I  must  do  it  to-morrow ;  she'll  never  live  thro'  it,  I  fear.' 


I  walk'd  with  our  kindly  old  Doctor  as  far  as  the  head  of  the  stair. 
Then  I  return' d  to  the  ward ;  the  child  didn't  see  I  was  there. 

VI. 

Never  since  I  was  nurse,  had  I  been  so  grieved  and  so  vext  ! 
Emmie  had  heard  him.     Softly  she  call'd  from  her  cot  to  the  next, 
*  He  says  I  shall  never  live  thro'  it,  O  Annie,  what  shall  I  do  ? 
Annie  consider'd.      '  If  I,'  said  the  wise  little  Annie,  '  was  you, 
I  should  cry  to  the  dear  Lord  Jesus  to  help  me,  for,  Emmie,  you  see. 

It's  all  in  the  picture  there:    "  Little  children  should  come  to  me."  ' 

(Meaning  the  print  that  you  gave  us,  I  find  that  it  always  can  please 
Our  children,  the  dear  Lord  Jesus  with  children  about  his  knees.) 
'  Yes,  and  I  will,'  said  Emmie,  '  but  then  if  I  call  to  the  Lord, 
How  should  he  know  that  it's  me  ?  such  a  lot  of  beds  in  the  ward  ! ' 
That  was  a  puzzle  for  Annie.     Again  she  consider'd  and  said : 
'  Emmie,  you  put  out  your  arms,  and  you  leave  'em  outside  on  the  bed- 
The  Lord  has  so  much  to  see  to  !  but,  Emmie,  you  tell  it  him  plain. 
It's  the  little  girl  with  her  arms  lying  out  on  the  counterpane.' 


VH.  * 

I  had  sat  three  nights  by  the  child — I  could  not  watch  her  for  four — 
My  brain  had  begun  to  reel — I  felt  I  could  do  it  no  more. 
That  was  my  sleeping-night,  but  I  thought  that  it  never  would  pass, 
'There  was  a  thunder-clap  once,  and  a  clatter  of  hail  on  the  glass. 
And  there  was  a  phantom  cry  that  I  heard  as  I  tost  about, 
The  motherless  bleat  of  a  lamb  in  the  storm  and  the  darkness  without ; 
My  sleep  was  broken  besides  with  dreams  of  the  dreadful  knife 
And  fears  for  our  delicate  Emmie  who  scarce  would  escape  with  her  life  ; 
Then  in  the  gray  of  the  morning  it  seem'd  she  stood  by  me  and  smiled, 
And  the  doctor  came  at  his  hour,  and  we  went  to  see  to  the  child. 


He  had  brought  his  ghastly  tools  :  we  believed  her  asleep  again — 
Her  dear,  long,  lean,  little  arms  lying  out  on  the  counterpane  ; 
Say  that  His  day  is  done  !     Ah  why  should  we  care  what  they  say  ? 
The  Lord  of  the  children  had  heard  her,  and  Emmie  had  past  away. 


5//?  JOHN  OLD  CASTLE,  LORD  COB  HAM. 


707 


DEDICATORY    POEM   TO   THE 
PRINCESS  ALICE. 

Dead  Princess,  living  Power,  if  that, 

which  lived 
True  life,    live   on  —  and  if  the  fatal 

kiss, 
Born  of  true  life  and  love,  divorce  thee 

not 
From  earthly  love  and  life — if  what  we 

call 
The  spirit  flash  not  all  at  once  from 

out 
This  shadow  into  Substance — then  per- 
haps 
The  mellow'd  murmur  of  the  people's 

praise 
From   thine   own   State,    and   all  our 

breadth  of  realm, 
Where   Love  and  Longing  dress  thy 

deeds  in  light. 
Ascends  to  thee  ;  and  this  March  morn 

that  sees 
Thy    Soldier-brother's   bridal   orange- 
bloom 
Break  thro'    the  yews   and   cypress  of 

thy  grave. 
And    thine    Imperial     mother     smile 

again. 
May  send  one  ray  to  thee  !  and  who 

can  tell — 
Thou  —  England's       England  -  loving 

daughter- 
Dying  so  English   thou  wouldst  have 

her  flag 
Borne  on  thy  coffin — where  is  he  can 

swear 
But  that  some  broken  gleam  from  our 

poor  earth 
May   touch   thee,  while    remembering 

thee,  I  lay 
At   thy   pale   feet    this   ballad   of  the 

deeds 
Of  England,    and    her   banner  in  the 

East? 


SIR   JOHN   OLDCASTLE,  LORD 
COBHAM. 

(IN   WALES.) 

My  friend  should  meet  me  somewhere 

hereabout 
To  take  me  to  that  hiding  in  the  hills. 

I   have  broke  their  cage,  no  gilded 
one,  I  trow — 

I   read   no    more  the  prisoner's  mute 
wail 

Scribbled   or  carved  upon  the  pitiless 
stone;  [or  none, 

I  find  hard  rocks,  hard  life,  hard  cheer, 

For  I  am  emptier  than  a  f'iar's  brains  ; 

But   God  is  with   me  in  this  wilder- 
ness, 

These   wet    black    passes   and   foam- 
churning  chasms, — 

And  God's  free  air,  and  hope  of  better 
things. 
I  would  I  knew  their  speech ;    not 
now  to  glean 

Not  now — I  hope  to  do  it — some  scat- 
ter'd  ears, 

Some  ears  for  Christ  in  this  wild  field 
of  Wales — 

But,   bread,   merely  for  bread.     This 
tongue  that  wagg'd 

They   said   with   such   heretical   arro- 
gance 

Against   the  proud    archbishop  Arun- 
del— 

So  much  God's  cause  was  fluent  in  it — 
is  here 

But  as  a  Latin  Bible  to  the  crowd  : 

'  Bara  ! ' — what  use  ?     The  Shepherd, 
v/hen  I  speak, 

Veiling  a  sullen  eyelid  with  his  hard 

'  Dim  Saesneg'  passes,  wroth  at  things 

of  old- 
No  fault  of  mine.     Had  he  God's  word 
in  Welsh 

He  might   be  kindlier  :  happily  come 
the  day  ! 

Not  least  art  thou,  thou  little  Bethle- 
hem 


7o8 


SIR  JOHN  OLDCASTLE,  LORD  COB  HAM. 


In  Judah,  for  in   thee  the  Lord  was 

born  ; 
Nor  thou  in  Britain,  little  Lutterworth, 
Least,  for  in  thee  the  word  was  born 

again. 

Heaven-sweet    Evangel,    ever-living 

vvrord, 
Who  whilom  spakest  to  the  South  in 

Greek 
About  the  soft  Mediterranean  shores, 
And  then  in  Latin  to  the  Latin  crowd, 
As  good  need  was — thou  hast  come  to 

talk  our  isle. 
Hereafter  thou,  fulfilling  Pentecost, 
Must  learn  to  use  the  tongues  of  all 

the  world. 
Yet   art  thou  thine  own  witness  that 

thou  bringest 
Not  peace,  a  sword,  a  fire. 

What  did  he  say, 
My  frighted  Wiclif-preacher  whom   I 

crost 
In  flying  hither  ?  that  one  night  a  crowd 
Throng'd  the  waste  field  about  the  city 

gates  :  [host. 

The  king  was  on  them  suddenly  with  a 
Why  there  ?  they  came  to  hear  their 

preacher.     Then 
Some  cried  on  Cobham,  on  the  good 

Lord  Cobham ; 
Ay,  for  they  love  me  !  but  the  king — 

nor  voice 
Nor  finger   raised   against   him — took 

and  hang'd, 
Took,  hang'd  and  burnt — how  many — 

thirty-nine — 
Call'd  it  rebellion — hang'd,poor  friends, 

as  rebels  [Priest 

And  burn'd  alive  as  heretics  !  for  your 
Labels— to   take  the  king  along  with 

him —  [traitors 

All  heresy,  treason  :  but  to  call  men 
May  make  men  traitors. 

Rose  of  Lancaster, 
Red  in  thy  birth,  redder  with  house- 
hold war. 


Now  reddest  with  the  blood  of  holy 
men, 

Redder  to  be,  red  rose  of  Lancaster— 

If  somewhere  in  the  North,  as  Rumoi 
sang 

Fluttering  the  hawks  of  this  crown-lust- 
ing line — 

By  firth  and  loch  thy  silver  sister  grow,* 

That  were  my  rose,  there  my  allegiance 
due 

Self-starved,  they  say — nay,  murder'J  : 
doubtless  dead. 

So  to"  this  king  I  cleaved :  my  friend 
was  he. 

Once  my  fast  friend  :  I  would  have 
given  my  life 

To  help  his  own  from  scathe,  a  thou- 
sand lives 

To  save  his  soul.  He  might  have  come 
to  learn 

Our  Wiclif  s  learning  :  but  the  worldly 
Priests 

Who  fear  the  king's  hard  common- 
sense  should  find 

What  rotten  piles  uphold  their  mason- 
work, 

Urge  him  to  foreign  war.  O  had  he 
wili'd  [him. 

I  might  have  stricken  a  lusty  stroke  for 

But  he  would  not ;  far  liever  led  my 
friend 

Back  to  the  pure  and  universal  church. 

But  he  would  not :  whether  that  heir- 
less flaw 

In  his  throne's  title  make  him  feel  so 
frail,  [mind. 

He  leans  on  Antichrist ;  or  that  his 

So  quick,  so  capable  in  soldiership, 

In  matter  of  the  faith,  alas  the  while  \ 

More  worth  than  all  the  kingdoms  of 
this  world. 

Runs  in  the  rut,  a  coward  to  the  Priest 

Burnt — good  Sir  Roger  Acton,  my 

dear  friend  !  [ley  ! 

Burnt  too,  my  faithful  preacher,  Bever- 

Lord  give  thou  power  to  thy  two  wit- 
nesses ! 

♦Richard  II. 


SIR  JOHN  OLDCASTLE^  LORD  COB H ATM. 


709 


Lest  the  false  faith  make  merry  over 
them  ! 

Two — nay  but    thirty-nme  have   risen 
and  stand, 

Dark  with  the  smoke  of  human  sacri- 
fice, 

Before  thy  light,  and  cry  continually — 

Cry — against  whom  ? 

Him,  who  should  bear  the  sword 

Of  Justice — what  !  the  kingly,   kindly 
boy; 

Who  took  the  world  so  easily  hereto- 
fore, 

My  boon  companion,   tavern-fellow — 
him 

Who  gibed  and  japed — in  many  a  merry 
tale 

That  shook  our  sides — at  Pardoners, 
Summoners, 

Friars,  absolution-sellers,  monkeries 

And  nunneries,  when  the  wild  hour  and 
the  wine 

Had  set  the  wits  aflame, 

Harry  of  Monmouth, 

Or  Amurath  of  the  East  ? 

Better  to  sink 

Thy  fleurs-de-lys   in  slime  again,  and 
fling 

Thy  royalty  back  into  the  riotous  fits 

Of  wine  and  harlotry — thy  shame,  and 
mine. 

Thy  comrade — than  to   persecute  the 
Lord,  [Paul. 

And  play  the  Saul  that  never  will  be 

Burnt,  burnt  !  and  while  this  mitred 

Arundel 
Dooms  our  unlicensed  preacher  to  the 

flame,  [clerks 

The  mitre-sanction'd  harlot  draws  his 
Into  the  suburb — their  hard  celibacy, 
Sworn   to  be  veriest  ice  of   pureness, 

molten 
Into  adulterous  living,  or  such  crimes 
As   holy    Paul — a   shame  to  speak  of 

them — 
Among  the  heathen — 

Sanctuary  granted 
To  bandit,  thief,  assassin — yea  to  him 


Who  hacks  his  mother's  throat — denied 

to  him. 
Who  finds  the  Saviour  in  his  mother 

tongue. 
The  Gospel,  the  Priest's  pearl,  flung 

down  to  swine — 
The  sv/ine,  lay-men,  lay-women,  who 

will  come, 
God  willing,  to  outlearn  the  filthy  friar. 
Ah  rather,  Lord,  than  that  thy  Gospel, 

meant 
To    course   and    range    thro'    all    the 

world,  should  be 
Tether'd   to  these  dead  pillars  of  the 

Church — 
Rather  than  so,  if  thou  wilt  have  it  so, 
Burst  vein,  snap  sinew,  and  crack  heart, 

and  life  [long. 

Pass  in  the  fire  of  Babylon  !  but  how 
O  Lord,  how  long  ! 

My  friend  should  meet  me  here. 

Here  is  the  copse,  the  fountain  and — a 
Cross  ! 

To  thee,  dead  wood,  I  bow  not  head 
nor  knees.  [God, 

Rather  to  thee,  green  boscage,  work  of 

Black  holly,  and  white-flower'd  way- 
faring-tree ! 

Rather  to  thee,  thou  living  water,  drawn 

By  this  good  Wiclif  mountain  down 
from  heaven, 

And  speaking  clearly  in  thy  native 
tongue —  [drink  ! 

No  Latin — He  that  thirsteth,  come  and 

Eh  !  how  I  anger' d  Arundel  asking 

me 
To    worship    Holy   Cross !     I    spread 

mine  arms, 
God's  work,  I  said,  a  cross  of  flesh  and 

blood 
And  holier.     That  was  heresy.     (My 

good  friend 
By  this  time  should  be  with  me.)  *Im« 

ages  ? ' 
*  Bury  them  as  God's  truer  images 
Are    daily    buried.'      'Heresy. — Pew 

ance  ?  '     '  Fast, 


7IO 


SIR  JOHN  OLDCASTLE,  LORD  COB  HAM. 


Hairshirt  and  scourge — nay,  let  a  man 
repent, 

Do  penance  in  his  heart,  God  hears 
him.'      '  Heresy — 

Not  shriven,  not  saved  ?  '  *  What  prof- 
its an  ill  Priest 

Between  me  and  my  God?  I  would 
not  spurn 

Good  counsel  of  good  friends,  but 
shrive  myself, 

No,  not  to  an  Apostle.'     'Heresy.' 

(My  friend  is  long  in  coming.)  '  Pil- 
grimages ?  * 

'  Drink,  bagpipes,  revelling,  devil's- 
dances,  vice.  [friar. 

The  poor  man's  money  gone  to  fat  the 

Who  reads  of  begging  saints  in  Scrip- 
ture ?  ' — '  Heresy ' — 

(Hath  he  been  here— not  found  me — 
gone  again  ? 

Have  I  mislearnt  our  place  of  meet- 
ing ?)     '  Bread — 

Bread  left  after  the  blessing  ? '  how 
they  stared, 

That  was  their  main  test-question — 
glared  at  me  ! 

*  He  veil'd  Himself  in  flesh,  and  now 

He  veils  [gether.' 

His  flesh  in  bread,  body  and  bread  to- 
Then  rose  the  howl  of  all  the  cassock' d 

wolves, 

*  No  bread,  no  bread.     God's  body  ! ' 

Archbishop,  Bishop, 
Priors,    Canons,    Friars,    bell-ringers. 
Parish- clerks — 

*  No  bread,  no  bread  ! ' — '  Authority 

of  the  Church, 

Power  of  the  keys  ! ' — Then  I,  God 
help  me,  I 

So  mock'd,  so  spurn' d,  so  baited  two 
whole  days — 

I  lost  myself  and  fell  from  evenness, 

And  rail'd  at  all  the  Popes,  that  ever 
since 

Sylvester  shed  the  venom  of  world- 
wealth  [selves 

Into  the  church,  had  only  prov'n  them- 

Poisoners,  murderers.  Well  —  God 
pardon  all — 


Me,  them,  and  all  the  world — yea,  that 
proud  Priest, 

That  mock-meek  mouth  of  utter  Anti- 
christ, 

That  traitor  to  King  Richard  and  the 
truth, 

Who  rose  and  doom'd  me  to  the  fire. 
Amen  ! 

Nay,  I  can  burn,  so  that  the  Lord  of 
life 

Be  by  me  in  my  death. 

Those  three  !  the  fourth 

Was  like  the  son  of  God.     Not  burnt 
were  they.  [past 

On  them  the  smell  of  burning  had  not 

That  was  a  miracle  to  convert  the  king. 

These   Pharisees,   this  Caiaphas- A  run- 
del 

What  miracle    could  turn  ?     He  here 
again. 

He  thwarting  their  traditions  of  Him- 
self, 

He  would  be  found  a  heretic  to  Plim- 
self, 

And  doom'd  to  biurn  alive. 

So,  caught,  I  burn. 
Burn  ?    heathen   men   have    borne    as 

much  as  this 
For  freedom,  or  the  sake  of  those  they 

loved, 
Or  some  less  cause,  some  cause  far  less 

than  mine  ; 
For    every   other    cause   is  less    than 

mine. 
The  moth  will  singe  her  wings,   and 

singed  return. 
Her  love  of  light  quenching  her  fear  of 

pain — 
How  now,  my  soul,  we  do  not  heed  tlie 

fire? 
Faint-hearted  ?  tut  ! — faint-stomach'd, 

faint  as  I  am, 
God  willing,  I  will  burn  for  Him. 

Who  comes  ? 

A   thousand  marks  are  set  upon    my 

head.  [then 

Friend? — foe  perhaps — a  tussle  for  it 


COLUMBUS. 


in 


Nay,  but  my  friend.     Thou  art  so  well 

disguised, 
I  knew  thee  not.     Hast  thou  brought 

bread  with  thee  ? 
I  have  not  broken  bread  for  fifty  hours. 
None?     I  am  damn'd  already  by  the 

Priest 
For   holding   there  was   bread   where 

bread  was  none — 
No  bread.      My  friends  await  me  yon- 
der ?     Yes, 
Lead  on  then.      Up  the  mountain  ?    Is 

it  far  ? 
Not    far.     Climb   first  and   reach  me 

down  thy  hand, 
I  am  not  like  to  die  for  lack  of  bread, 
For  I  must  live  to  testify  by  fire.  * 


COLUMBUS. 

Chains,  my  good  lord :  in  your  raised 
brows  I  read 

Some  wonder  at  our  chamber  orna- 
ments, [gold. 

We  brought  this  iron  from  our  isles  of 

Does  the  king  know  you  deign  to 

visit  him 
Whom  once  he  rose  from  off  his  throne 

to  greet 
Before   his  people,    like    his    brother 

king  ? 
I  saw  your   face  that  morning  in  the 

crowd. 

At  Barcelona — tho'you  were  not  then 
So    bearded.     Yes.     The    city  deck'd 

herself 
To   meet   me,  roar'd  my  name ;    the 

king,  the  queen 
Bade   me   be   seated,    speak,  and   tell 

them  all  [spoke 

The  story  of  my  voyage,  and  while  I 
The  crowd's  roar  fell  as  at  the  *  Peace, 

be  still ! ' 


*  He  was  burnt  on  Christmas  Day,  141 7, 


And  when  I  ceased  to  speak,  the  king^ 

the  queen, 
Sank  from  their  thrones,  and  melted 

into  tears. 
And  knelt,  and  lifted  hand  and  heart 

and  voice 
In  praise  to  God  who  led  me  thro'  the 

waste. 
And  then  the  great   *  Laudamus  '  rose 

to  heaven. 

Chains  for  the  Admiral  of  the  Ocean, 

chains  [earth. 

For  him  who  gave  a  new  heaven,  a  new 
As  holy  John  had  prophesied  of  me, 
Gave  glory  and  more   empire    to  the 

kings 
Of  Spain  than  all  their  battles  !  chains 

for  him  [sun, 

Who  push'd  his  prows  into  the  setting 
And  made  West  East,  and  sail'd  the 

Dragon's  mouth. 
And  came  upon  the  Mountain  of  the 

World, 
And  saw  the  rivers  roll  from  Paradise  ! 

Chains  !    we   are    Admirals   of    the 

Ocean,  we, 
We  and  our  sons  forever.      Ferdinand 
Hath  sign'd  it  and  our  Holy  Catholic 

queen — 
Of  the  Ocean — of  the  Indies — Admirals 

we — 
Our    title,    which   we   never   mean  to 

yield. 
Our  guerdon  not  alone  for  what  we  did. 
But  our  amends  for  all  we  might  have 

done — 
The  vast  occasion  of  our  stronger  life— ^ 
Eighteen  long  years  of  waste,  seven  in 

your  Spain, 
Lost,  showing  courts  and  kings  a  truth 

the  babe  [earth 

Will  suck  in  with  his  milk  hereafter — 
A  sphere. 

Were  you  at  Salamanca  ?     No. 
We  fronted  there  the  learning  of  all 
Spain, 


712 


COLUMBUS. 


All   their  cosmogonies,  their  astrono- 
mies : 
Guess-work   they   guess'd    it,  but    the 

golden  guess  [truth. 

Is  morning-star  to   the  full  round  of 
No  guess-work  !     I  was  certain  of  my 

goal ; 
Some    thought    it  heresy ;  that  would 

not  hold.  [a  tent 

King  David  call'd  the  heavens  a  hide, 
Spread  over  earth,  and  so  this  earth 

was  flat  : 
Some  cited  old  Lactantius :   could  it  be 
That  trees  grew  downward,  rain    fell 

upward,  men 
Walk'd   like  the  fly  on  ceilings  ?  and 

besides. 
The  great  Augustine  wrote  that  none 

could  breathe 
Within    the   zoxvo.   of  heat ;    so  might 

there  be 
Two  Adams,  two  mankinds,  and  that 

was  clean  [back 

Against  God' s  word  :  thus  was  I  beaten 
And    chiefly    to    my   sorrow    by     the 

Church, 
And   thought   to    turn   my   face  from 

Spain,  appeal 
Once  more  to  France  or  England  ;  but 

our  Queen 
Recall'd   me,  for    at   last  their  High- 
nesses 
Were  half- assured  this  earth  might  be 

a  sphere. 

All  glory  to  the  all-blessed  Trinity, 
All  glory  to  the  mother  of  our  Lord, 
And  Holy  Church,  from  whom  I  never 

swerved 
Not    even    by   one   hair's-breadth    of 

heresy, 
I  have  accomplish'd  what  I  came  to  do. 

Not  yet — not  all — last  night  a  dream 

—I  sail'd 
On  my  first  voyage,    harass'd   by  the 

frights 
Of  my  first  crew,  their  curses  and  their 

groans. 


The  great  flame-banner  borne  by  Ten-. 

erifie, 
The  compass,  like  an  old   friend  false 

at  last 
In  our  most  need,  appall' d  them,  and 

the  wind 
Still  westward,  and  the  weedy  seas — at 

length 
The   landbird,    and    the   branch   with 

berries  on  it, 
The  carven   staff — and    last  the  light, 

the  light  [name ; 

On  Guanahani  !  but  I  changed  the 
San  Salvador  I  call'd  it  ;  and  the  light 
Grew  as  I  gazed,  and    brought  out  a 

broad  sky 
Of    dawning    over — not     those    alien 

palms,  [not 

The  marvel  of  that  fair  new  nature — 
That  Indian  isle,  but  our  most  ancient 

East 
Moriah  with  Jerusalem  ;   and  I  saw 
The  glory  of  the  Lord  flash  up,  and 

beat 
Thro'  all  the  homely  town  from  jasper, 

sapphire, 
Chalcedony,  emerald, sardonyx,  sardius, 
Chrysolite,  beryl,  topaz,  chrysoprase, 
Jacinth,     and    amethyst  —  and     those 

twelve  gates, 
Peail — and    I    woke,    and    thought — ^ 

death — I  shall  die — 
I  am  written  in  the  Lamb's  own  Book 

of  Life 
To  walk  within  the  glory  of  the  Lord 
Sunless  and  moonless,  utter  light — but 

no  ! 
The  Lord  had  sent  this  bright,  strange 

dream  to  me 
To  mind  me  of  the  secret  vow  I  made 
When  Spain  was  waging  war  against 

the  Moor — 
I  strove  myself  with  Spain  against  the 

Moor. 
There  came  two  voices  from  the  Sep- 
ulchre, [oust 
Two  friars  crying  that  if  Spain  should 
The   Moslem  from  her  limit,  he,  the 

fierce 


COLUMBUS. 


in 


Soldan  of   Egypt,  would   break  down 

and  raze 
The  blessed  tomb  of  Christ ;  whereon 

I  vow'd 
That,  if  our   Princes   harken'd  to  my 

prayer, 
Whatever  wealth  I  brought  from  that 

new  world  [lead 

Should,  in  this  old,  be   consecrate   to 
A  new  crusade  against  the  Saracen, 
And    free    the    Holy    Sepulchre    from 

thrall. 

Gold  ?     I  had  brought  your  Princes 

gold  enough 
If  left  alone  !     Being  but  a  Genovese, 
I  am  handled  worse  than  had  I  been  a 

Moor, 
And  breach'd  the  belting  wall  of  Cam- 

balu, 
And  given  the  Great  Khan's  palaces  to 

the  Moor, 
Or  clutch'd  the  sacred  crown  of  Prestcr 

John, 
And  cast  it  to   the  Moor :  but  had  I 

brought  [all 

From  Solomon's  now-recovered  Ophir 
The  gold  that  Solomon's  navies  carried 

home, 
Would   that    have   gilded   me  ?     Blue 

blood  of  Spain, 
Tho'  quartering  your  own  royal  arms 

of  Spain, 
I  have  not :  blue  blood  and  black  blood 

of  Spain, 
The  noble  and  the  convict  of  Castile, 
Howl'd  me  from  Hispaniola ;  for  you 

know 
The   flies   at    home,  that   ever   swarm 

about 
And  cloud  the  highest  heads,  and  mur- 
mur down 
Truth  in  the  distance — these  out-buzz'd 

me  so 
That  even  our  prudent  king,  our  right- 
eous queen — 
J  pray'd  them  being  so  calumniated 
They  would  commission  one  of  weight 

and  worth 


To  judge  between  my  slander'd  self 

and  me — 
Fonseca  my  main  enemy  at  tlieir  court, 
They  send  me  out  his  tool,  Bovadilla, 

one 
As  ignorant  and  impolitic  as  a  beast^ 
Blockish  irreverence,  brainless  greed — 

who  sack'd 
My  dwelling,  seized  upon  my  papers, 

loosed 
My    captives,    fed   the    rebels    of   the 

crown. 
Sold  the  crown-farms  for  all  but  noth- 
ing, gave 
All  but  free  leave  for  all  to  work  the 

mines, 
Drove  me  and  my  good  brothers  home 

in  chains, 
And  gathering  ruthless  gold — a  single 

piece  [ — so 

Weigh'd  nigh  four  thousand  Castillanos 
They  tell  me — weigh'd  him  down  into 

the  abysm — 
The  hurricane  of  the  latitude  on  him 

fell. 
The  seas  of  our  discovering  over-roll 
Him  and  his  gold  ;  the  frailer  caravel. 
With  what  was  mine,  came  happily  to 

the  shore. 
There   was    a    glimmering    of    God's 

hand. 

And  God 
Hath  more  than  glimmer' d  on  me.     O 

my  lord, 
I  swear  to  you  I  heard  his  voice  be« 

tween 
The    thunders   in    the   black  Veragua 

nights, 
'O  soul  of  little  faith,  slow  to  believe  ! 
Have  1  not  been  about  thee  from  thy 

birth  ?  [sea  ? 

Given  thee  the  keys  of  the  great  Ocean- 
Set  thee  in  light  till  time  shall  be  no 

more  ? 
Is*  it  I  who  have  deceived  thee  or  the 

world  ? 
Endure  !   thou  hast  done  so  well  fo< 

men,  that  men 


714 


COLUMBUS. 


Cry  out  against  thee :   was  it  otherwise 
With  mine  own  Son  ? ' 

And  more  than  once  in  days 
Of  doubt  and  cloud  and  storm,  when 

drowning  hope 
Sank  all  but  out  of  sight,  I  heard  his 

voice,  [hand, 

*  Be  not  cast  down,    I  lead  thee  by  the 
Fear  not.'     And  I  shall  hear  his  voice 

again — 
I  know  that  he  has  led  me  all  my  life, 
I  am  not  yet  too  old  to  work  his  will — 
His  voice  again. 

Still  for  all  that,  my  lord, 
I  lying  here  bedridden  and  alone. 
Cast  off,  put  by,  scouted  by  court  and 

king, 
The  first  discoverer   starves — his   fol- 
lowers, all 
Flower  into  fortune — our  world's  way 

— and  I, 
Without  a  roof  that  I  can  call  mine  own. 
With   scarce    a    coin   to   buy  a   meal 

withal, 
And  seeing  what  a  door  for  scoundrel 

scum  [lust, 

I  open'd  to  the  West,  thro'  which  the 
Villany,    violence,     avarice,    of    your 

Spain 
Pour'd  in  on   all   those  happy  naked 

isles — 
Their   kindly   native  princes   slain   or 

slaved. 
Their  wives  and  children  Spanish  con- 
cubines, 
Their  innocent  hospitalities  quench' d 

in  blood, 
Some  dead  of   hunger,  some  beneath 

the  scourge. 
Some  over-labor'd,  some  by  their  own 

hands, — 
Yea,  the  dear  mothers,  crazing  Nature, 

kill 
Their  babies  at  the  breast  for  hate  of 

Spain — 
Ah,  God,  the  harmless  people  whom 

we  found 


In  Hispaniola's  island- Paradise  ! 
Who  took  us  for  the  very  Gods  from 

Heaven, 
And  we   have  sent    them   very  fiends 

from  Hell  ; 
And  I  myself,  myself  not  blameless,  I 
Could  sometimes  wish  I  had  never  led 

the  way. 

Only  the  ghost  of  our  great  Cath- 
olic Queen  [forted  ! 
Smiles  on  me,  saying,  '  Be  thou  com- 
This  creedless  people  will  be  brought 

to  Christ 
And    own    the    holy   governance    of 
Rome.' 

But  who  could  dream  that  we,  who 
bore  the  Cross 
Thither,  were  excommunicated  there, 
For   curbing   crimes   that    scandalized 

the  Cross, 
By  him,  the  Catalonian  Minorite, 
Rome's  Vicar  in  our  Indies  ?  who  be- 
lieve [Spain 
These  hard  memorials  of  our  truth  to 
Clung  closer  to  us  for  a  longer  term 
Than  any  friend  of  ours  at  Court  ?  and 

yet 
Pardon — too  harsh,  unjust.   I  am  rack'd 
with  pains. 

You  see  that  I  have  hung  them  by 
my  bed. 
And  I  will   have   them  buried   in  my 
grave. 

Sir,  in  that  flight  of  ages  which  are 

God's  [chance 

Own  voice  to  justify   the  dead — per- 
Spain  once  the  most  chivalric  race  on 

earth, 
Spain  then   the   mightiest,  wealthiest 

realm  on  earth, 
So  made  by  me,  may  seek  to  unbury  me. 
To  lay  me  in  some  shrine  of  this  old 

Spain, 
Or  in   that  vaster   Spain  I   leave   t« 

Spain. 


THE   VOYAGE    OF  MAELDUNE. 


7IS 


Then  some  one  standing  by  my  grave 
will  say, 

•  Behold  the  bones  of  Christopher  Co- 

lon'— 

*  Ay,  but  the  chains,  what  do  they  mean 

— the  chains  ? ' — 
I  sorrow  for  that  kindly  child  of  Spain. 
Who  then  will  have  to  answer,  *  These 

same  chains 
Bound  these  same  bones  back  thro'  the 

Atlantic  sea, 
Which  he  unchain'd  for  all  the  world  to 

come.' 

O  Queen  of  Heaven  who  seest  the 

souls  in  Hell 
And  purgatory,  I  suffer  all  as  much 
As  they  do — for  the  moment.     Stay, 

my  son 
Is  here  anon  :  my  son  will  speak   for 

me 
Ablkr  than  I  can  in  these  spasms  that 

grind 
Bone   against    bone.     Yon   will    not. 

One  last  word. 

You  move  about  the  Court,  I  pray 

you  tell 
King  Ferdinand  who  plays  with  me, 

that  one, 
Wfixose  life  has  been  no  play  with  him 

and  his 
H/  Vlgos—shipwrecks,  famines,  fevers, 

fights. 


I  Mutinies,   treacheries — wink'd  at,  and 
I  condoned — 

I  That  I  am  loyal  to  him  till  the  death, 
'  And    ready— tho'    our    Holy  Catholic 
I  Queen, 

i  Who  fain   had  pledged  her  jewels  on 
!  my  first  voyage, 

:  Whose  hope  was  mine  to  spread  the 
I  Catholic  faith, 

■  Who  wept  with  me  when  I  return'd  in 
j  chains. 

Who   sits   beside   the    blessed   Virgin 

now. 
To  whom  I  send  my  prayer  by  night 

and  day — 
She  is  gone — but  you  will  tell  the  King, 

that  I, 
Rack'd  as  I  am  with  gout,  and  wrench'd 

with  pains 
Gain'd  in  the  service  of  His  Highness, 

yet 
Am  ready  to  sail  forth  on  one  last  voy- 
age. 
And  readier,  if  the  King  would  hear,  to 

lead 
One  last  crusade  against  the  Saracen, 
And   save   the    Holy    Sepulchre   from 
thrall. 

Going  ?    I  am  old  and  slighted  :  you 

have  dared 
Somewhat    perhaps    in    coming?    mj" 

poor  thanks  ! 
I  am  but  an  alien  and  a  Genovese. 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  MAELDUNE. 

(Founded  on  an  Irish  Legend,     a.d.  700.) 

I. 

I  WAS  the  chief  of  the  race— he  had  stricken  my  father  dead — 

But  I  gather'd  my  fellows  together,  I  swore  I  would  strike  off  his  head. 

Each  of  them  look'd  like  a  king,  and  was  noble  in  birth  as  in  worth, 

And  each  of  them  boasted  he  sprang  from  the  oldest  race  upon  earth. 

Each  was  as  brave  in  the  fight  as  the  bravest  hero  of  song. 

And  each  of  them  liefer  had  died  than  have  done  one  another  a  wrong. 

He  lived  on  an  isle  in  the  ocean — we  sail'd  on  a  Friday  mom — 

He  that  had  slain  my  father  the  day  before  P  was  born. 


7i6  THE   VOYAGE    OF  MAELDUNE. 


II. 

And  we  came  to  the  isle  in  the  ocean,  and  there  on  the  shore  was  he. 
But  a  sudden  blast  blew  us  out  and  away  thro'  a  boundless  sea. 


And  we  came  to  the  Silent  Isle  that  we  never  had  touch'd  at  before, 

Where  a  silent  ocean  always  broke  on  a  silent  shore,  [falls 

And  the  brooks  glitter'd  on  in  the  light  without  sound,  and  the  long  water- 

Pour'd  in  a  thunderless  plunge  to  the  base  of  the  mountain  walls, 

And  the  poplar  and  cypress  unshaken  by  storm  flourish'd  up  beyond  sight, 

And  the  pine  shot  aloft  from  the  crag  to  an  unbelievable  height, 

And  high  in  the  heaven  above  there  flicker'd  a  songless  lark, 

And  the  cock  couldn't    crow,  and   the  bull  couldn't  low,    and  the   dog 

couldn't  bark. 
And  round  it  we  went,  and  thro'  it,  but  never  a  murmur,  a  breath — 
It  was  all  of  it  fair  as  life,  it  was  all  of  it  quiet  as  death. 
And  we  hated  the  beautiful  Isle,  for  whenever  we  strove  to  speak 
Our  voices  were  thinner  and  fainter  than  any  flitter-mouse  shriek ; 
And  the  men  that  were  mighty  of  tongue  and  could  raise  such  a  battle-cry 
That  a  hundred  who  heard  it  would  rush  on  a  thousand  lances  and  die — 
O  they  to  be  dumb'd  by  the  charm  ! — so  fluster'd  with  anger  were  they 
They  almost  fell  on  each  other  ;  but  after  we  sail'd  away. 

IV. 

And  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  Shouting,  we  landed,  a  score  of  wild  birds 

Cried  from  the  topmost  summit  with  human  voices  and  words; 

Once  in  an  hour  they  cried,  and  whenever  their  voices  peal'd 

The  steer  fell  down  at  the  plow  and  the  harvest  died  from  the  field, 

And  the  men  dropt  dead  in  the  valleys  and  half  of  the  cattle  went  lame, 

And  the  roof  sank  in  on  the  hearth,  and  the  dwelling  broke  into  flame ; 

And  the  shouting  of  these  wild  birds  ran  into  the  hearts  of  my  crew. 

Till  they  shouted  along  with  the  shouting  and  seized  one  another  and  slew  j 

But  I  drew  them  the  one  from  the  other ;  I  saw  that  we  could  not  stay, 

And  we  left  the  dead  to  the  birds  and  we  sail'd  with  our  wounded  away. 


And  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  Flowers  :  their  breath  met  us  out  on  the  seas, 
For  the  Spring  and  the  middle  Summer  sat  each  on  the  lap  of  the  breeze; 
And  the  red  passion-flower  to  the  cliffs,  and  the  dark  blue  clematis,  clung. 
And  starr'd  with  a  myriad  blossom  the  long  convolvulus  hung; 
And  the  topmost  spire  of  the  mountain  was  lilies  in  lieu  of  snow, 
And  the  lilies  like  glaciers  winded  down,  running  out  below 
Thro'  the  fire  of  the  tulip  and  poppy,  the  blaze  of  gorse,  and  the  blush 
Of  millions  of  roses  that  sprang  without  leaf  or  a  thorn  from  the  bush ; 
And  the  whole  isle-side  flashing  down  from  the  peak  without  ever  a  tree 
Swept  like  a  torrent  of  gems  from  the  sky  to  the  blue  of  the  sea  ; 
And  we  roll'd  upon  capes  of  crocus  and  vaunted  our  kith  and  our  kin, 
And  we  wallow'd  in  beds  of  lilies,  and  chanted  the  triumph  of  Finn, 


Till  each  like  a  golden  image  was  poUen'd  from  head  to  feet, 
And  each  was  as  dry  as  a  cricket,  with  thirst  in  the  middle-day  heat. 
Blossom  and  blossom,  and  promise  of  blossom,  but  never  a  fruit  ! 
And  we  hated  the  Flowering  Isle,  as  we  hated  the  isle  that  was  mute, 
And  we  tore  up  the  flowers  by  the  million  and  flung  them  in  bight  and  bay, 
And  we  Wt  but  a  naked  rock,  and  in  anger  we  sail'd  away. 

VI. 

And  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  Fruits  :  all  round  from  the  cliffs  and  the  capes, 

Purple  or  amber,  dangled  a  hundred  fathom  of  grapes, 

And  the  warm  melon  lay  like  a  little  sun  on  the  tawny  sand, 

And  the  fig  ran  up  from  the  beech  and  rioted  over  the  land, 

And  the  mountain  arose  like  a  jewell'd  throne  thro'  the  fragrant  air. 

Glowing  with  all-color'd  plums  and  with  golden  masses  of  pear. 

And  the  crimson  and  scarlet  of  berries  that  flamed  upon  bine  and  vine, 

But  in  every  berry  and  fruit  was  the  poisonous  pleasure  of  wine  ; 

And  the  peak  of  the  mountain  was  apples,  the  hugest  that  ever  were  seen. 

And  they  prest,  as  they  grew,  on  each  other,  with  hardly  a  leaflet  between. 

And  all  of  them  redder  than  rosiest  health  or  than  utterest  shame. 

And  setting,    Vhen  Even  descended,  the  very  sunset  aflame  ;  [drew 

And  we  stay'd  three  days,  and  we  gorged  and  we  madden'd,  till  every  on« 

His  sword  on  his  fellow  to  slay  him,  and  ever  they  struck  and  they  slew ; 

And  myself,  I  had  eaten  but  sparely,  and  fought  till  I  sunder'd  the  fray, 

Then  I  bade  them  remember  my  father's  death,  and  we  sail'd  away. 

VII. 

And  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  Fire  :  we  were  lured  by  the  light  from  afar. 
For  the  peak  sent  up  one  league  of  fire  to  the  Northern  Star  ; 
Lured  by  the  glare  and  the  blare,  but  scarcely  could  stand  upright. 
For  the  whole  isle  shudder'd  and  shook  like  a  man  in  a  mortal  affright ; 
We  were  giddy  besides  with  the  fruits  we  had  gorged,  and  so  crazed  that 

at  last 
There  were  some  leap'd  into  the  fire  ;  and  away  we  sail'd,  and  we  past 
Over  that  undersea  isle,  where  the  water  is  clearer  than  air  : 
Down  we  look'd :  what  a  garden  !     O  bliss,  what  a  Paradise  there  ! 
Towers  of  a  happier  time,  low  down  in  a  rainbow  deep 
Silent  palaces,  quiet  fields  of  eternal  sleep  ! 

And  three  of  the  gentlest  and  best  of  my  people,  whate'er  I  could  say, 
Plunged  head  down  in  the  sea,  and  the  Paradise  trembled  away. 

VIII. 

And  we  came  to  the  Bounteous  Isle,  where  the  heavens  lean  low  on  the 

land, 
And  ever  at  dawn  from  the  cloud  glitter' d  o'er  us  a  sunbright  hand. 
Then  it  open'd  and  dropt  at  the  side  of  each  man,  as  he  rose  from  his  res*- 
Bread  enough  for  his  need  till  the  laborless  day  dipt  under  the  West ; 
And  we  wander'd  about  it  and  thro'  it,     O  never  was  time  so  good  ! 
And  we  sang  of  the  triumphs  of  Finn,  and  the  boast  of  our  ancient  blood, 


7i8  THE   VOYAGE   OF  MAELDUNE. 


And  we  gazed  at  the  wandering  wave  as  we  sat  by  the  gurgle  of  springs, 
And  we  chanted  the  songs  of  the  Bards  and  the  glories  of  fairy  kings  ; 
But  at  length  we  began  to  be  weary,  to  sigh,  and  to  stretch  and  yawn, 
Till  we  hated  the  Bounteous  Isle  and  the  sunbright  hand  of  the  dawn. 
For  there  was  not  an  enemy  near,  but  the  whole  green  isle  was  our  own, 
And  we  took  to  playing  at  ball,  and  we  took  to  throwing  the  stone, 
And  we  took  to  playing  at  battle,  but  that  was  a  perilous  play, 
For  the  passion  of  battle  was  in  us,  we  slew  and  we  sail'd  away. 

IX. 

And  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  Witches  and  heard  their  musical  cry — 

•  Come  to  us,  O  come,  come '  in  the  stormy  red  of  a  sky 

Dashing  the  fires  and  the  shadows  of  dawn  on  the  beautiful  shapes. 

For  a  wild  witch  naked  as  heaven  stood  on  each  of  the  loftiest  capes, 

And  a  hundred  ranged  on  the  rock  like  white  sea-birds  in  a  row, 

And  a  hundred  gamboll'd  and  pranced  on  the  wrecks  in  the  sand  below, 

And  a  hundred  splash'd  from  the  ledges,  and  bosom'd   the  burst  of  th« 

spray, 
But  I  knew  we  should  fall  on  each  other,  and  hastily  sail'd  away. 

X. 

And  we  came  in  an  evil  time  to  the  Isle  of  the  Double  Towers : 
One  was  of  smooth-cut  stone,  one  carved  all  over  with  flowers  : 
But  an  earthquake  always  moved  in  the  hollows  under  the  dells, 
And  they  shock'd  on  each  other  and  butted  each  other  with  clashing  of 

bells, 
And  the  daws  flew  out  of  the  Towers  and  jangled  and  wrangled  in  vain. 
And  the  clash  and  boom  of  the  bells  ran  into  the  heart  and  the  brain. 
Till  the  passion  of  battle  was  on  us,  and  a  I  took  sides  with  the  Towers, 
There  were  some  for  the  clean-cut  stone,  there  were  more  for  the  carven 

flowers. 
And  the  wrathful  thunder  of  God  peal'd  over  us  all  the  day, 
For  the  one  half  slew  the  other,  and  after  we  sail'd  away. 


And  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  a  Saint  who  had  sail'd  with  St.  Brendan  of  yore, 
He  had  lived  ever  since  on  the  isle  and  his  winters  were  fifteen-score. 
And  his  voice  was  low  as  from  other  worlds,  and  his  eyes  were  sweet, 
And  his  white  hair  sank  to  his  heels  and  his  white  beard  fell  to  his  feet. 
And  he  spake  to  me,  '  O  Maeldune,  let  be  this  purpose  of  thine  ! 
Remember  the  words  of  the  Lord  when  he  told  us  "  Vengeance  is  mine  !  " 
His  fathers  have  slain  thy  fathers  in  war  or  in  single  strife, 
Thy  fathers  have  slain  his  fathers,  each  taken  a  life  for  a  life. 
Thy  father  had  slain  his  father,  how  long  shall  the  murder  last  ? 
Go  back  to  the  Isle  of  Finn  and  suffer  the  Past  to  be  Past.' 
And  we  kiss'd  the  fringe  of  his  beard,  and  we  pray'd  as  we  heard  him  pray, 
And  the  Holy  man  he  assoil'd  us,  and  sadly  we  sail'd  away. 


DE  PROFUNDIS. 


719 


XII. 

And  we  came  to  the  Isle  we  were  blown  from,  and  there  on  the  shore  was 

he, 
The  man  that  had  slain  my  father.     I  saw  him  and  let  him  be. 
O  weary  was  I  of  the  travel,  the  trouble,  the  strife  and  the  sin, 
When  I  landed  again,  with  a  tithe  of  my  men,  on  the  Isle  of  Finn. 


DE  PROFUNDIS. 

THE  TWO  GREETINGS. 
I 

Out  of  the  deep,  my  child,  out  of  the 

deep, 
Where  all  that  was  to  be,  in  all  that 

was, 
Whirl'd   for  a  million  seons  thro'  the 

vast 
Waste  dawn  of  multitudinous-eddying 

light- 
Out  of  the  deep,  my  child,  out  of  the 

deep. 
Thro'  all  this  changing  world  of  change- 
less law. 
And  every  phase   of  ever-heightening 

life, 
And  nine  long  months   of  ante-natal 

gloom. 
With  this  last  moon,  this  crescent — her 

dark  orb 
Touch'd     with     earth's     light  —  thou 

comest,  darling  boy  ; 
Our   own ;   a  babe  in   lineament    and 

limb 
Perfect,  and   prophet   of  the    perfect 

man  ; 
Wh9.se  face  and   form   are  hers   and 

mine  in  one, 
Indissolubly  married  like  our  love ; 
Live,    and   be  happy   in   thyself,    and 

serve 
This  m.ortal  race  thy  kin  so  well,  that 

men 
May  bless  thee   as  we  bless  thee,  O 


young  life 
ikintr 


Breaking  with  laughter  from  the  dark 
and  may 


The  fated  channel  where  thy  motion 

lives 
Be  prosperously  shaped,  and  sway  thy 

course 
Along  the  years  of  haste  and  random 

youth 
Unshatter'd ;    then   full-current    thro' 

full  man  ; 
And  last  in  kindly  curves,  with  gentlest 

fall, 
By  quiet  fields,  a  slowly-dying  power, 
To  that  last  deep  where  we  and  thou 

are  still. 

II 
I. 

Out  of  the  deep,  my  child,  out  of  the 

deep. 
From  that  great  deep,  before  our  world 

begins, 
Whereon  the  Spirit  of  God  moves  as 

he  will — 
Out  of  the  deep,  my  child,  out  of  the 

deep. 
From  that  true  world  within  the  world 

we  see, 
Whereof  our  world  is  but  the  bounding 

shore- 
Out  of  the  deep.  Spirit,  out  of  the  deep, 
With  this  ninth  moon,  that  sends  the 

hidden  sun 
Down  yon  dark  sea,  thou  comest,  darl- 
ing boy. 

II. 

For  in  the  world,  which  is  not   ours 

they  said 
*  Let  us  make  man '   and  that  which 

should  be  man. 


720 


TO    THE  REV.    W.  H.  BROOKFIELD. 


From  that  one  light  no  man  can  look 

upon, 
Drew  to  this  shore  lit  by  the  suns  and 

moons 
And  all  the  shadows.     O  dear  Spirit 

half-lost  [sign 

In  thine  own  shadow  and  this  fleshly 
That  thou  art  thou — who  wailest  being 

born  pain 

And   banish'd   into  mystery,   and   the 
Of  this  divisible-indivisible  world, 
Among  the  numerable-innumerable 
Sun,  sun,  and  sun,  thro'  finite-infinite 

space 
In  finite-infinite  Time — our  mortal  veil 
And  shatter'd  phantom  of  that  infinite 

One, 
Who  made  thee  unconceivably  Thyself 
Out  of  His  whole  World-self  and  all  in 

all- 
Live  thou  !  and  of  the  grain  and  husk, 

the  grape 
And  ivy-berry,  choose  ;  and  still  depart 
From  death  to  death  thro'  life  and  life, 

and  find 
Nearer   and   ever    nearer    Him,    who 

wrought 
Not  Matter,  nor  the  finite-infinite, 
But  this  main-miracle,  that   thou  art 

thou, 
With  power  on  thine  own  act  and  on 

the  world. 


THE  HUMAN  CRY. 


Hallowed    be    Thy    name  —  Halle- 
luiah ! — 

Infinite  Ideality  ! 
Immeasurable  Reality  ! 
Infinite  Personality  ! 

Hallowed  be  Thy  name — Halleluiah  ! 

IL 
We  feel  we  are  nothing — for  all  is  Thou 

and  in  Thee  ; 
We  feel  we  are  something — that  also 

has  come  from  Thee  : 


We  know  we  are  nothing — but  Thou 

wilt  help  us  to  be. 
Hallowed  be  Thy  name — Halleluiah  ^ 


PREFATORY  SONNET 

TO   THE    '  NINETEENTH    CENTURY.' 

Those  that  of  late  had  fleeted  far  and 

fast 
To  touch  all  shores,  now  leaving  to  the 

skill 
Of  others   their   old   craft    seaworthy 

still, 
Have  charter'd  this  ;  where,  mindful  of 

the  past. 
Our  true  co-mates  regather  round  the 

mast ; 
Of  diverse  tongue,  but  with  a  common 

will 
Here,  in  this  roaring  moon  of  daffodil 
And  crocus,  to  put  forth  and  brave  the 

blast ; 
For  some,  descending  from  the  sacred 

peak 
Of    hoar    high-templed    Faith,    have 

leagued  again 
Their  lot  with  ours  to  rove  the  world 

about ; 
And  some  are  wilder  comrades,  sworn 

to  seek 
If  any  golden  harbor  be  for  men 
In  seas  of  Death  and  sunless  gulfs  of 

Doubt. 


TO   THE  REV.   W.    H.    BROOK- 
FIELD. 

Brooks,  for   they  call'd  you  so   that 

knew  you  best, 
Old  Brooks,  who  loved  so  well  to  mouth 

my  rhymes, 
How  oft  we  two  have  heard  St.  Mary's 

chimes  ! 
How  oft  the  Cantab  supper,  host  and 

guest. 


TO    VICTOR  HUGO. 


721 


Would  echo  helpless  laughter  to  your 

jest  ! 
How  oft  with  him  we  paced  that  walk 

of  limes. 
Him,  the   lost    light   of  those   dawn- 
golden  times, 
Who  loved  you  well  !     Now  both  are 

gone  to  rest. 
Yon    man    of   humorous    melancholy 

mark, 
Dead  of  some  inward  agony — is  it  so  ? 
Our    kin'flUier,    trustier    Jaques,    past 

away  ! 
I    cannot   laud    this  life,   it   looks  so 

dark  : 
S/ctas  ovap — dream  of  a  shadow,  go — 
God  bless  you.     I  shall  join  you  in  a 

day. 


MONTENEGRO. 


They  rose  to  where  their  sovran  eagle 

sails, 
They  kept  their  faith,  their  freedom,  on 

the  height. 
Chaste,  frugal,  savage,  arm'd  by  day 

and  night 
Against  the  Turk ;  whose  inroad  no- 
where scales 
Their  headlong  passes,  but  his  footstep 

fails, 
And  red  with  blood  the  Crescent  reels 

from  fight 
Before    their    dauntless   hundreds,    in 

prone  flight 
liy  thousands  down  the  crags  and  thro' 

the  vales. 
O    smallest    among    peoples  J     rough 

rock-throne 


Of  Freedom  !    warriors  beating  back 

the  swarm 
Of  Turkish    Islam    for   five   hundred 

years, 
Great  Tsernogora  !   never  since  thine 

own 
Black  ridges  drew  the  cloud  and  biak<:- 

the  storm 
Has  breathed  a  race  of  mightier  aiouii- 

taineers. 


TO    VICTOR  HUGO. 

Victor  in  Drama,  Victor  in  Romance, 

Cloud -weaver  of  phantasmal  hopes  and 
fears, 

French  of  the  French,  and  Lord  of 
human  tears; 

Child-lover ;  Bard  whose  fame-lit  lau- 
rels glance 

Darkening  the  wreaths  of  all  that  would 
advance. 

Beyond  our  strait,  their  claim  to  be  thy 
peers  ; 

Weird  Titan  by  thy  winter  weight  of 
years 

As  yet  unbroken,  Stormy  voice  of 
France  ! 

Who  does  not  love  our  England — so 
they  say  ; 

I  know  not — England,  France,  all  man 
to  be 

Will  make  one  people  ere  man's  race 
be  run  : 

And  I,  desiring  that  diviner  day. 

Yield  thee  full  thanks  for  thy  full  cour- 
tesy 

To  younger  England  in  the  boy  my 
soix. 


722 


BATTLE    OF  BI^UNAMBURR. 


FATTLE  OF  BRUNANBURH. 

Constantrnns,  King  of  the  Scots,  after  having-  sworn  allegiance  to  Athelstan, 
allied  himself  with  the  Danes  of  Ireland  \mder  Anlaf,  and  invading  England, 
was  defeated  by  Athelstan  and  his  bi-other  Edmund  with  great  sl^mghter  iit 
Brunanburh  in,  the  year  937.  /^ 


♦Athelstan  King, 
Lord  amoag  Earls, 
Bracelet-bestower  and 
Baron  of  Barons, 
He  with  hfe  brother,. 
Edmvsnd  Atheling,, 
Gaining  a  lifelong 
Glory  in  battle, 
Slev^  with  the  sword-edge 
Thereby  Brunanburh, 
Brake  the  shield-wall, 
HewM  the  linden-wood, f 
Hacked  the  battle-shield. 
Sons    of    Edward    with    hajcnmer'd 
brands. 


Theirs  v/as  a  greatness 
**    Got  froxn  their  Grandsii 
Theirs  that  so  often  in 
Strife  with  their  ensemies 
Struck  for  their  hoards  and  tlieir  hearths 
and  their  homes. 


in. 

BowM  the  spoiler, 
Bent  the  Scotsman, 
Fell  the  ship-crews 
Doom'^d  to  the  death. 


All  the  field  with  blood  of  the  fight- 
ers 
Flo-wM ,  from  when  first  the  great 
Sun-star  ot  morning-tide. 
Lamp  of  the  Lord  God 
Lord  everlasting, 
Glode  over  earth  till   the   glorious 
creature 
Sunk  to  his  settmg. 


IV. 

There  lay  many  a  man 
Marr'd  by  the  javelin. 
Men  of  the  Northland 
Shot  over  shield. 
There  was  the  Scotsman 
Weary  of  war. 


We  the  West-Saxons, 
Long  as  the  daylight 
lasted,  in  companies 
Troubled  the  track  of  the  host  that 
we  hated, 
Grimly  with  swords  that    were   shaip 

from  the  grindstone, 
Fiercely  we  hack'd  at  the  flyers  before 
us. 


*  I  have  more  or  less  availed  myself  of  my  son**  prose  txansladoii  of  this  poem  in  the   Cotr 
tetnporarv  RenieiK  (November  1876). 
•f  Shields  of  lladea-vi-ood. 


BATTLE    OF  BRUNANBURH. 


in 


Mighty  the  Mercian, 
Hard  was  his  hand-play, 
Sparing  not  any  of 
Those  that  with  Anlaf, 
Warriors  over  the 
Weltering  waters 
Borne  in  the  bark's  bosom 
Drew  to  this  island, 
Doom'd  to  the  death. 

VII. 

Five  young  kings  put  asleep  by  the 

sword-stroke, 
Seven  strong  Earls  of  the  army  of 

Anlaf 
Fell   on    the   war-field,    numberless 

numbers, 
Shipmen  and  Scotsmen. 


Then  the  Norse  leader, 
Dire  was  his  need  of  it, 
Few  were  his  following, 
Fled  to  his  war-ship  : 

Fleeted  his  vessel  to  sea  with  the  king 
in  it, 

Saving  his  life  on  the  fallow  flood. 


Also  the  crafty  one, 

Constantinus, 

Crept  to  his  North  again 

Hoar-headed  hero  ! 


Slender  reason  had 

He  to  be  proud  of 

The  welcome  of  war-knives— 

He  that  was  reft  of  his 

Folk  and  his  friends  that  had 

Fallen  in  conflict, 

Leaving  his  son  too 

Lost  in  the  carnage. 

Mangled  to  morsels, 

A  youngster  in  war  ! 


XI. 

Slender  reason  had 

He  to  be  glad  of 

The  clash  of  the  war-graive — 

Traitor  and  trickster 

And  spurner  of  treaties — 

He  nor  had  Anlaf 

With  armies  so  broken 

A  reason  for  bragging 

That  they  had  the  better 

In  perils  of  battle 

On  places  of  slaughter — 

The  struggle  of  standards, 

The  rush  of  the  javelins. 

The  crash  of  the  charges,* 

The  wielding  of  weapons — 

The  play  that  they  play'd  with 

The  children  of  Edward. 

XII. 

Then  with  their  nail'd  prows 

Parted  the  Norsemen,  a 

Blood-redden' d  relic  of 

Javelins  over 

The  jarring  breaker,  the  deep- 
sea  billow, 

Shaping  their  way  toward  Dye- 
fln  f  again, 

Shamed  in  their  souls. 

XIII. 

Also  the  brethren. 
King  and  Atheling, 
Each  in  his  glory, 
Went  to  his  own  in  his  own  West-Sax- 
onland. 

Glad  of  the  war. 

XIV. 

Many  a  carcass  they  left  to  the  car- 
rion, 

Many  a  livid  one,  many  a  sallow- 
skin — 

Left  for  the  white-tail'd  eagle  to 
tear  it,  and 

Left  for  the  horny-nibb'd  raven  to 
rend  it,  and 


*  Lit.  '  the  gatheaing  of  inen.'        t  Dublin. 


?24 


ACHILLES   OVER    THE    TRENCH. 


Gave  to  the  garbaging  war 

-hawk 

Have  writ  of  in  histories — 

to  gorge  it,  and 

Hapt  in  this  isle,  since 

That  gray  beast,  the  wolf  of  the 

Up  from  the  East  hither 

weald. 

Saxon  and  Angle  from 
Over  the  broad  billow 

XV. 

Broke  into  Britain  with 
Haughty  war-workers  who 

Never  had  huger 

Harried  the  Welshman,  when 

Slaughter  of  heroes 

Earls  that  were  lured  by  the 

Slain  by  the  sword-edge — • 

Hunger  of  glory  gat 

Such  as  old  writers 

Hold  of  the  land. 

ACHILLES   OVER   THE   TRENCH. 


ILIAD,  XVm.  202. 


So  saying,  light 'foot  Iris  pass'd  away. 
Then  rose  Achilles  dear  to  Zeus  ;  and 

round 
The  warrior's  puissant  shoulders  Pallas 

flung 
Her  fringed  aegis,  and  around  his  head 
The  glorious  goddess  wreath'd  a  golden 

cloud, 
And    from   it    lighted    an    all-shining 

flame. 
As  when  a  smoke  from  a  city  goes  to 

heaven 
Far  off  from  out  an  island  girt  by  foes, 
All  day  the  men  contend  in  grievous  war 
From  their  own  city,  but  with  set  of  sun 
Their  fires  flame  thickly,  and  aloft  the 

glare 
Flies  streaming,  if  perchance  the  neigh- 
bors round 
May  see,  and  sail  to  help  them  in  the 

war  ; 
So  from  his  head  the  splendor  went  to 

heaven. 
From  wall  to  dike  he  stept,  he  stood, 

nor  join'd 
The     Achgeans  —  honoring    his    wise 

mother's  word — 
There  standing,  shouted,  and  Pallas  far 

away 


Call'd ;  and  a  boundless  panic  shook 

the  foe. 
For  like  the  clear  voice  when  a  trumpet 

shrills. 
Blown  by  the  fierce  beleaguerers  of  a 

town, 
So  rang  the  clear  voice  of  ^akides  ; 
And  when  the  brazen  cry  of  ^akides 
Was  heard  among  the  Trojans,  all  their 

hearts 
Were    troubled,    and    the    full-man «d 

horses  whirl'd 
The  chariots  backward,  knowing  griefs 

at  hand ; 
And  sheer-astounded  were  the  chariot- 
eers 
To  see  the  dread,  unweariable  fire 
That  always  o'er   the   great    Peleion's 

head 
Burn'd,    for   the   bright-eyed    goddess 

made  it  burn. 
Thrice  from  the  dike  he  sent  his  mighty 

shout, 
Thrice  backward  reel'd  the  Trojans  and 

allies ; 
And   there   and   then  twelve  of  their 

noblest  died 
Among  their  spears  and  chariots. 


DESPAIR,  725 


DESPAIR. 


A  DRAMATIC   MONOLOGUE. 


I  man  and  his  wife  having  lost  faith  in  a  God,  and  hope  of  a  life  to  come,  and  being 
utW  f  miserable  in  this,  resolve  to  end  themselves  by  drowning.  The  woman  is  drowned,  but 
the      In  is  rescued  by  a  minister  of  the  sect  he  had  abandcmed. 


[s  it  you,  that  preach'd  in  the  chapel  there  looking  over  the  sand  ? 
FoUow'd  us  too,  that  night,  and  dogg'd  us,  and  drew  me  to  land  ? 

II. 
What  did  I  feel  that  night  ?     You  are  curious.     How  should  I  tell  ? 
Does  it  matter  so  much  what  I  felt  ?     You  rescued  me — yet — was  it  well 
That  you  came  unwish'd  for,  uncall'd,  between  me  and  the  deep  and  my  doom 
Three  days  since,  three  more  dark  days  of  the  Godless  gloom 
Of  a  life  without  sun,  without  health,  without  hope,  without  any  delight 
[n  anything  here  upon  earth  ?  but  ah  God,  that  night,  that  night 
When  the  rolling  eyes  of  the  light-house  there  on  the  fatal  neck 
Of  land  running  out  into  rock — they  had  saved  many  hundreds  from  wreck — 
Glared  on  our  way  toward  death,  I  remember  I  thought  as  we  past 
Does  it  matter  how  many  they  saved?  we  are  all  of  us  wreck'd  at  last— 
**Do  you  fear,"  and  there  came  thro'  the  roar  of  the  breaker  a  whisper,  a 

breath — 
"Fear?  am  I  not  with  you?     I  am  frightened  at  life,  not  death." 

III. 

And  the  suns  of  the  limitless  Universe  sparkled  and  shone  in  the  sky, 
Flashing  with  fires  as  of  God,  but  we  knew  that  their  light  was  a  lie — 
Bright  as  with  deathless  hope — but,  however  they  sparkled  and  shone, 
The  dark  little  worlds  running  round  them  were  worlds  of  woe  like  our 

own — 
No  soul  in  the  heaven  above,  no  soul  on  the  earth  below, 
A  fiery  scroll  written  over  with  lamentation  and  woe. 

IV. 
See,  we  were  nursed  in  the  dark  night-fold  of  your  fatalist  creed, 
And  we  turn'd  to  the  growing  dawn,  we  had  hoped  for  a  dawn  indeed, 
When  the  light  of  a  Sun  that  was  coming  would  scatter  the  ghosts  of  the 

Past, 
And  the  cramping  creeds  than  had  madden'd  the  peoples  would  vanish  at  last, 
And  we  broke  away  from  the  Christ,  our  human  brother  and  friend, 
For  He  spoke,  or  it  seem'd  that  He  spoke,  of  a  Hell  without  help,  without 

end. 

V. 
Hoped  for  a  dawn  and  it  came,  but  the  promise  had  faded  away ; 
We  had  past  from  a  cheerless  night  to  the  glare  of  a  drearier  day ; 


726  DESPAIR. 


He  is  only  a  cloud  and  a  smoke  who  was  once  a  pillar  of  fire, 

The  guess  of  a  worm  in  the  dust  and  the  shadow  of  its  desire — 

Of  a  worm  as  it  writhes  in  a  world  of  the  weak  trodden  down  by  the  strong, 

Of  a  dying  worm  in  a  world  all  massacre,  murder,  and  wrong. 

VI. 

O  we  poor  orphans  of  nothing — alone  on  that  lonely  shore — 
Born  of  the  brainless  Nature  who  knew  not  that  which  she  bore  ! 
Trusting  no  longer  that  earthly  flower  would  be  heavenly  fruit — 
Come  from  the  brute,  poor  souls— no  souls — and  to  die  with  the  brute ■ 


Nay,  but  I  am  not  claiming  your  pity  :  I  know  you  of  old — 
Small  pity  for  those  that  have  ranged  from  the  narrow  warmth  of  your  fold 
Where  you  bawl'd  the  dark  side  of  your  faith  and  a  God  of  eternal  rage. 
Till  you  flung  us  back  on  ourselves,  and  the  human  heart,  and  the  Age. 

VIII. 

But  pity — the  Pagan  held  it  a  vice — was  in  her  and  in  me, 

Helpless,  taking  the  place  of  the  pitying  God  that  should  be  ! 

Pity  for  all  that  aches  in  the  grasp  of  an  idiot  power, 

And  pity  for  our  own  selves  on  an  earth  that  bore  not  a  flower ; 

Pity  for  all  that  suffers  on  land  or  in  air  or  the  deep, 

And  pity  for  our  own  selves  till  we  long'd  for  eternal  sleep. 

IX. 

' '  Lightly  step  over  the  sands  I  the  waters — you  hear  them  call  ! 
Life  with  its  anguish,  and  horrors,  and  errors — away  with  it  all  !  " 
And  she  laid  her  hand  in  my  own — she  was  always  loyal  and  sweet- 
Till  the  points  of  the  foam  in  the  dusk  came  playing  about  our  feet.     • 
There  was  a  strong  sea-current  would  sweep  us  out  to  the  main. 
**  Ah  God,"  tho'  I  felt  as  I  spoke,  I  was  taking  the  name  in  vain — 
*•  Ah  God,"  and  we  turn'd  to  each  other,  wq  kiss'd,  we  embraced,  she  and  I, 
Knowing  the  Love  we  were  used  to  believe  everlasting  would  die  : 
We  had  read  their  know-nothing  books,  and  we  lean'd  to  the  darker  side — 
Ah  God,  should  we  find  Him,  perhaps,  perhaps,  if  we  died,  if  we  died  ; 
We  never  had  found  Him  on  earth,  this  earth  is  a  fatherless  Hell — 
**  Dear  Love,  for  ever  and  ever,  for  ever  and  ever  farewell," 
Never  a  cry  so  desolate,  not  since  the  world  began  ! 
Never  a  kiss  so  sad,  no,  not  since  the  coming  of  man. 

X. 

But  the  blind  wave  cast  me  ashore,  and  you  saved  me,  a  valueless  life. 
Not  a  grain  of  gratitude  mine  !     You  have  parted  the  man  from  the  wife 
I  am  left  alone  on  the  land,  she  is  all  alone  in  the  sea. 
If  a  curse  meant  aught,  I  would  curse  you  foi"  not  having  let  me  b«. 


DESPAIR.  nj 


XI. 
Visions  oi  youth — For  my  brain  was  dtunk  with  the  walef,  it  seems  j 
I  had  past  into  jjerfect  quiet  at  length  out  of  pleasant  dreams, 
And  the  transient  trouble  of  drowning — what  was  it  when  match'd  with  th€ 

pains 
Of  the  hellish  heat  of  a  wretched  life  rushing  back  thro'  the  veins  ? 

xn. 

Why  should  I  live  ?  one  son  had  forged  oa  his  father  and  fled^ 
And  if  I  believed  in  a  God,  I  would  thank  hun  the  other  is  dead^ 
And  there  was  a  baby-girl,  that  had  never  look'd  on  the  light : 
Happiest  she  of  us  all,  for  she  past  from  the  night  to  the  night. 

xni. 
But  the  crime,  if  a  crime,  of  her  eldest-born,  her  glory,  her  boast. 
Struck  hard  at  the  tender  heart  of  the  mother,  and  broke  it  almost  5 
Tho',  name  and  fame  dying  out  for  ever  in  endless  time, 
Does  it  matter  so  much  whether  crown'd  for  a  virtue,  or  hanged  for  a  crime  ? 

XIV. 
And  ruinVl  by  A/w,  by  Aim,  I  stood  there,  naked,  amazed 
In  a  world  of  arrogant  opulence,  fear'd  myself  turning  crazed^ 
And  I  would  not  be  mock'd  in  a  madhouse  I  and  she,  the  delicate  wife, 
With  a  grief  that  could  only  be  cured,  if  cured,  by  the  surgeon's  knifC)— - 

XV. 

Why  should  we  bear  with  an  hour  of  torture,  a  moment  of  pain 

If  every  man  die  for  ever,  if  all  his  griefs  are  in  vain, 

And  the  homeless  planet  at  length  will  be  wheel'd  thro*  the  silence  of  space, 

Motherless  evermore  of  an  ever-vanishing  race. 

When  the  worm  shall  have  writhed  its  last,  and  its  last  brother-worm  will 

have  fled 
From  the  dead  fossil  skull  that  is  left  in  the  rocks  of  an  earth  that  is  dead  ? 

XVI. 
Have  I  crazed  myself  over  their  horrible  infidel  writings  ?     O  yes, 
For  these  are  the  new  dark  ages,  you  see,  of  the  popular  press, 
When  the  bat  comes  out  of  his  cave,  and  the  owls  are  whooping  at  noon. 
And  Doubt  is  the  lord  of  this  dunghill  and  crows  to  the  sim  and  the  moon, 
Till  the  Sun  and  the  Moon  of  our  science  are  both  of  them  turn'd  into  blood, 
And  Hope  will  have  broken  her  heart,  running  after  a  shadow  of  good  ; 
For  their  knowing  and  know-nothing  books  are  scattered  from  hand  to 

hand — 
JVg  have  knelt  in  your  knowall  chapel  too  looking  over  the  sand. 

XVil. 
What  !  I  should  call  on  that  Infinite  Love  that  has  served  us  so  Well  ? 
T-nfinite  wickedness  rather  that  madt  everlasting  Hell, 


728 


CHARGE    OF   THE   HEAVY  BRIGADE. 


Made  us,  foreknew  ixs,  foredoom'd  us,  and  does  what  he  will  with  his  own; 
Better  our  dead  brute  mother  who  never  has  heard  us  groan  I 

XVIII. 
Hell  ?  if  the  souls  of  men  were  immortal,  as  men  have  been  told, 
The  lecher  would  cleave  to  his  lusts,  and  the  miser  would  yearn  for  his  gold, 
And  so  there  were  Hell  for  ever  !  but  were  there  a  God  as  you  say, 
His  Love  would  have  power  over  liell  till  it  utterly  vanish'd  away. 

XIX. 
Ah  yet — I  have  had  some  glimmer,  at  times,  in  my  gloomiest  woe, 
Of  a  God  behind  all — after  all — the  great  God  for  aught  that  I  know ; 
But  the  God  of  Love  and  of  Hell  together — they  cannot  be  thought, 
If  there  be  such  a  God,  may  the  Great  God  curse  him  and  bring  him  to 
naught  I 

XX. 
Blasphemy  !  whose  is  the  fault  ?  is  it  mine  ?  for  why  would  you  save 
A  madman  to  vex  you  with  wretched  words,  who  is  best  in  his  grave  ? 
Blasphemy  !  ay,  why  not,  being  damn'd  beyond  hope  of  grace  ? 
O  would  I  were  yonder  with  her,  and  away  from  your  faith  and  your  face  ! 
Blasphemy  !  true  !  I  have  scared  you  pale  with  my  scandalous  talk. 
But  the  blasphemy  to  niy  mind  lies  all  in  the  way  that  you  walk. 

XXI. 

Hence  !  she  is  gone  !  can  I  stay  ?  can  I  breathe  divorced  from  the  Past  ? 
You  needs  must  have  good  lynx-eyes  if  I  do  not  escape  you  at  last. 
Our  orthodox  coroner  doubtless  will  find  it  a  felo-de-se. 
And  the  stake  and  the  cross-road,  fool,  if  you  will,  does  it  matter  to  me  ? 


THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  HEAVY  BRIGADE  AT  BALACLAVA. 

OCTOBER   25TH,    1854. 

[The  "three  hundred"  of  the  "  Heavy  Brigade "  who  made  this  famous  charge  were  the 
Scots  Greys  and  the  2d  squadron  of  Inniskillings  ;  the  remainder  of  the  "  Heavy  Brigade"  su1>. 
sequendy  dashing  up  to  their  support. 

The  "  three"  were  EUiot,  Scarlett's  aid-de-camp,  who  had  been  riding  by  his  side,  and  the 
trumpeter  and  Shegog  the  orderly,  who  had  been  close  behind  him.] 

When  the  points  of  the  Russian  lances 

broke  in  on  the  sky ;  X 
And  he  call'd  '*  Left  wheel  into  line  ! " 

and  they  wheel'd  and  obey'd.  X 
Then  he  look'd  at  the  host   that  had 

halted  he  knew  not  why. 
And  he  turn'd  half  round,  and  he  bade 

his  trumpeter  sound 
To  the  chargof  and  he  rode  on  ahead, 

a^  be  waved  his  blade 


The  charge  of  the  gallant  three  hun- 
dred, the  Heavy  Brigade  ! — 

Down  the  hill,  down  the  hill,  thou- 
sands of  Russians, 

Thousands  of  horsemen,,  drew  to  the 
valley — and  stay'd  ;    "^ 

For  Scarlett  and  Scarlett's  three  hun- 
dred were  riding  by 


To  the  gallant   three   hundred  whose 

glory  will  never  die — 
='  Follow,  Xand  up  the  hill,  up  the  hill, 

up  the  Kill, 
Follow'd  the  Heavy  Brigade.)^' 


The  trumpet,   the  gallop,  the  charge, 

and  the  might  of  the  fight  ! — X 
Down   the   hill,  slowly,  thousands   of 

Russians 
Drew  to  the  valley,  and  halted  at  last 

on  the  height. 
With  a  wing  push'd  out  to  the   left, 

and  a  wing  to  the  right — >. 
But  Scarlett  was  far  on  ahead,  and  he 

dash'd  up  alone 
Thro'  the  great  gray  slope  of  men,K 
And  he  wheel' d  his  sabre,  he  held  his 

own 
Like  an  Englishman  there  and  then ;  / 
And  the  three  that  were  nearest  him 

follow'd  with  force, 
Wedged  themselves  between  horse  and 

horse,     y. 
Fought   for  their  lives  in  the  narrow 

gap  they  had  made, 
Four  amid  thousandsVand  up  the  hill, 

up  the  hill 
Gallopt  the  gallant  three  hundred,  the 

Heavy  Brigade. )( 


Fell  like  a  cannonshot, 

Burst  like  a  thunderbolt, 

Crash'd  like  a  hurricane,    \ 

Broke  thro'  the  mass  from' below. 

Drove  thro'  the  midst  of  the  foe,  y^ 

Plunged  up  and  down,  to  and  fro. 

Rode  flashing  blow  upon  blow,  V 

Brave  Inniskillens  and  Greys 

Whirling  their  sabres  in  circles  of  light  J( 

And  some  of  us,  all  in  amaze, 

Who  were  held  for  a  while  from  the 

fight. 
And  were  only  standing  at  gaze,    ^^ 
When  the  dark-muffled  Russian  crowd 
Folded  its  wings  from  the  left  and  the 

right, 


And  roll'd  them  around  like  a  cloud, — '.v 
O  mad  for  the  charge  and  the  battle 

were  we, 
When   our   own   good   redcoats   sank 

from  sight, 
Like  drops  of  blood  in  a  dark-gray  sea,  j^ 
And  we  turn'd  to  each  other,  mutter- 
ing, all  dismay'd. 
Lost  are  the  gallant  three  hundred,  the 
Heavy  Brigade  ! 

IV. 

But  they  rode  like  Victors  and  Lords 
Thro'  the  forest  of  lances  and  swords 
In  the  heart  of  the  Russian  hordes  ;  /^ 
They  rode,  or  they  stood  at  bay — 
Struck  with  the  sword-hand  and  slew, 
Down  with  the  bridle-hand  drew 
The  foe  from  the  saddle  and  threw 
Underfoot  there  in  the  fray —   "^ 
Ranged  like  a  storm  or  stood  like  a  rock 
In  the  wave  of  a  stormy  day ;    \ 
Till  suddenly  shock  upon  shock 
Stagger'd  the  mass  from  without. 
For  our  men  gallopt  up  with  a  cheer 

and  a  shout,    ^ 
And  the  Russian  ^rged,  and  waver'd, 

and  reel'd 
Up  the  hill,  up  the  hill,  up  the  hill,  out 

of  the  field. 
Over  the  brow  and  away.    > 

V. 
Glory   to    each   and   to    all,    and    the 

charge  that  they  made  !     -  ■ 
Glory  to   all   the   three   hundred,  the 

Heavy  Brigade  !   y^ 


TO    THE    PRINCESS    FREDER- 
V  ICA  ON  HER  MARRIAGE. 

O  YOU  that  were  eyes  and  light  to  the 
King  till  he  passed  away 
P>om  the  darkness  of  life — 
He  saw  not  his  daughter — he  blessed 
her  :  the  blind  King  sees  you 
to-day. 
He  blesses  the  wife. 


730 


TO    VIRGIL, 


•    SIR  JOHN  FRANKLIN, 

ON  THE   CENOTAPH   IN   WESTMINSTER 
ABBEY. 

Not   here  !  the   white  North  has  thy 
bones  ;  and  thou, 

Heroic  sailor-soul, 
Art  passing  on  thine  happier   voyage 
now 

Toward  no  earthly  pole. 


TO  DANTE. 

(WRITTEN      AT      REQUEST       OF     THE 
FLORENTINES.) 

King,   that  hast  reigned  six  hundred 
years,  and  grown  [own 

In  power,  and  ever  growest,  since  thine 
Fair  Florence,  honoring  thy  nativity, 
Thy  Florence,  now  the  crown  of  Italy, 
Hath   sought    the   tribute   of  a  vers« 

from  me, 
I,  wearing  but  the  garland  of  a  day, 
Cast  at  thy  feet  one  flower  that  fades 
away. 


TO  VIRGIL. 

WRITTEN     AT   THE    REQUEST    OF    THE    MANTUANS    FOR     THE    NINETEENTH 
CENTENARY   OF  VIRGIL'S    DEATH. 

Roman  Virgil,  thou  that  singest  Ilion's  lofty  temples  robed  in  fire, 
Ilion  falling,  Rome  arising,  wars,  and  filial  faith,  and  Dido's  pyre ; 

Landscape-lover,  lord  of  language  more  than  he   that   sang  the  Works  and 

Days, 
All  the  chosen  coin  of  fancy  flashing  out  from  many  a  golden  phrase  ; 

Thou  that  singest  wheat  and  woodland,  tilth  and  vineyard,  hive  and  horse  anc 

herd  ; 
All  the  charm  of  all  the  Muses  often  flowering  in  a  lonely  word ; 

Poet  of  the  happy  Tityrus,  piping  underneath  his  beechen  bowers  ; 
Poet  of  the  poet-satyr  whom  the  laughing  shepherd  bound  with  flowers ; 

Chanter  of  the  Pollio,  glorifying  in  the  blissful  years  again  to  be, 
Summers  of  the  snakeless  meadow,  unlaborious  earth  and  oarless  sea  j 

Thou  that  seest  Universal  Nature  moved  by  Universal  Mind ; 
Thou  majestic  in  thy  sadness  at  the  doubtful  doom  of  human  kind ; 

Light  among  the  vanished  ages  ;  star  that  gilded  yet  this  phantom  shore  : 
Golden  branch  amid  the  shadows,  kings  and  realms  that  pass  to  rise  no  more ; 

Now  thy  Forum  roars  no  longer  ;  fallen  every  purple  Csesar's  dome — 
Though  thine  ocean-roll  of  rhythm  sound  forever  of  Imperial  Rome  — 

Now  the  Rome  of  slaves  hath  perished,  and  the  Rome  of  freemen  holds  nei 

place ; 
I,  from  out  the  Northern  Island  sundered  once  from  all  the  human  race, 

I  salute  thee,  Mantovano,  I  that  loved  thee  since  my  day  began, 
Wielder  of  the  stateliest  measure  ever  moulded  by  the  lips  of  man. 


14  DAY  USE 

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